


Find Me In The Shadows

by Wenzel



Series: Between Shadows and Light [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (but not before it gets a lot worse), (it gets better), Alien!Keith, Backstory, Galra!Keith, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Psychological Trauma, RIP to whatever remains of Keith's mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 190,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7445824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenzel/pseuds/Wenzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the other Paladins lost to the wormhole and the Castle of Lions out of contact, Keith struggles to survive on a dying Lion. But his rescuer isn’t Shiro or Allura or even Lance: it’s the Galra, and Zarkon has plans for his new find.</p><p>Shiro/Keith and Keith/Zarkon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He woke to blackness. There were no stars or planets. Only the lights of the Red Lion let him see. Panels and screens glowed, their light reflecting off the cracks in his helmet. “Where--?” His voice cracked. Dry blood coated his mouth. The iron taste made him wince. His hands were stiff and ached when he reached out to tap a red screen. CONNECTION LOST was what the Red Lion translated the Altean as.  It took a moment for his brain remember why.

He’d fallen from the Castle in the wormhole. He didn’t know if the others had as well. He remembered screams, panic, and a swirl of red and purple. Maybe some of them—Shiro and Pidge, most likely—had figured out how to get back to the Castle.

He looked out at the empty universe. His Lion purred against his mind, yet it provided no answers. He turned to the computer, searching for the co-ordinates of the Castle’s last transmission. But they lead back to when they were just entering the wormhole. Of all the places he wanted to go back to, that was the last. The feeling of Zarkon’s whip coiling around the Red Lion’s leg made him shiver. The Red Lion shuddered beneath him. Did it remember too, or was it all the damage from the fight?

He had bigger problems, though. He risked explosion if he flew too fast: diagnostics reported overheating, fracture, and rampant fires all over the Lion’s back interior. The Lions had a degree of self-repair, but not enough to fix the problem while in space. There wasn’t anywhere to land—the system had probably been cleared out by an exploding star at some point. Venting the back of the lion snuffed out the fires, but their damage would stay for a while yet.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He tapped through screen after screen, all of them delivering worse and worse news. He was a few dozen systems away from the Galra Empire’s central region. Not far enough, he thought, for comfort. Static made the display flicker. He tried to will the Lion into holding on to the report.

Most of the nearby systems were empty. Why, he couldn’t say. Possibly for defense, or a result of something similar to what they’d done to the Balmera. It didn’t matter, though. He doubted he’d reach any without the Lion exploding. His left hand stroked the metal chair arm. _I’m sorry_ , he thought. But it wasn’t for fighting Zarkon. _I could have done better._

He laid back in the chair. There wasn’t anything he could do. He needed to wait for the Castle or other Paladins and hope they arrived before a Galra patrol ship did, his systems failed, or he died of dehydration and hunger. He wished, for once, he’d done what Hunk had told him to. “What kind of Paladin needs a stash of food in their Lion?” he’d asked Hunk as the man slipped drinks and snacks and capsules of _something_ into a compartment of tools.

“A smart one,” Hunk had said between eating his own stash. “You’ll see—you’ll be hungry in the middle of practice, and then where will you be? _Starveville._ ”

He hoped the Galra patrols got him first.


	2. Chapter 2

He refused to rest. He spent seconds, minutes, hours working on the Lion. His career at the Galaxy Garrison had been as a pilot—but that meant more than steering ships. It meant knowing the mechanics of the vessel. He didn’t have Pidge’s inventiveness or Hunk’s ability to engineer, but he knew how to use a screwdriver and what error messages meant. His prognosis so far was ‘not good’.

He needed to keep the Lion together long enough for rescue. He had a day before the lack of water would affect his mind. After that, he’d have maybe three to three and a half days. He’d sweat a lot during the fight, and he had bruises and cuts. The heat inside the Lion was lessening—venting the back had helped—but with the sweaty miserable work ahead of him, it was going to be dangerous. He stripped out of his suit as much as he could. Mesh hugged his body underneath the white metal. Non-flammable, Coran had told them; non-toxic, but definitely not edible and had he ever told them about—

He shook his head. Gauntlets protected his hands from sparks. Frayed wires kept the life systems on. Sockets were melted in places. He fanned an overheated engine with part of his armor. He’d have vented it, but it was connected to the front cockpit. Two hours passed. He refused to think. His head was dizzy enough.

Panic was his enemy. Panic would raise his heartbeat and make him warmer. It’d cost more precious water and drain his salts via sweat. He didn’t speak to himself. When exhaustion weighed him down like stones, he headed for the cockpit. The Lion’s small interior had just enough space for him to walk upright.

He sat in the chair before he peeled off the remaining armor. The Lion’s cooling air drifted through the mesh and through his undershirt. A faint headache rested at his temples. His dry tongue—no longer coated in dry blood—still felt like it’d spent a vacation in the desert. His cheek twitched as he ran his tongue over his mouth’s walls. Everything was dry. But the Lion wasn’t likely to explode anymore, and while he couldn’t soar to another system, he could float.

He let his head tilt back. Sweat dripped from his hair. It slid down his skin: mixed with the cooling systems, it felt a bit like ice. It made him think of winter back home. That was a good thought—a thought that might help him sleep. He shut his eyes from the vastness of space and tried to dream of snow. Toronto always got a dusting during winter—a thin layer that turned to slush when stepped on. Traffic would slow. Kids would come out of their apartment buildings and find a small area of former greenery to play in. Keith remembered the orphanage’s attendants ferrying kids back and forth from the nearby park. “You should join them,” he’d been told once. He’d slipped back to his room to read instead.

A beep made him stir. His eyes fluttered open—he checked the alert before the clock. A Galra ship crawled through the system, its scanners searching for something. It couldn’t be him, he thought: that would mean the Galra had the ability to trace the wormhole, which he doubted. But it didn’t matter what they were after. In thirty minutes, the system told him, they’d find him in range of their sensors. And then he’d lose the Red Lion.

The clock showed he’d slept for several hours. Part of him was angry. He should have spent those hours saying goodbye to the Lion. But the rest of him knew he’d need energy for what was coming. The Galra would be pleased to see him and would likely greet him with fists. His heartbeat fluttered at the thought. The dizziness from before worsened. He decided to put his armor back on. The cold metal made him shiver.

His bruised ribs ached when he leaned over. Scabbed cuts pulled when he shifted—most were on his face, and his frown made them itch. He waited for the screen to open a new window. It wouldn’t be Zarkon. It wouldn’t even be someone like Sendak. It’d be a confused, low-ranking grunt who got to gape at a Lion. Would they return to accolades? Unlikely. Zarkon would know it was simple chance. Whoever had warped the wormhole would earn his praise. He didn’t know what to think of Zarkon, but he knew the man wasn’t a fool. No fool could control the Galra Empire for ten thousand years.

The computer beeped as a screen opened. A Galra soldier stood at attention. “This is Captain Jax of the Galra Empire. I order you to surrender,” Jax declared. “By command of Emperor Zarkon—“

“Please get it over with,” Keith said. Jax jerked back. His ears flattened against his head. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“—You will submit to the Empire’s might,” Jax said. “Your ship is being brought on board.” Keith stared at him as a tractor beam began to drag the Red Lion towards the cruiser. Jax didn’t flinch, though his ears stayed flat. “Any resistance will be met with force. I am aware that your machine is damaged. You have no other alternative but surrender.”

“…Understood,” he said. Keith could snap and snarl for now. But he knew things would change the moment he stepped on board. Jax held his life in his hands. He already regretted the sarcasm. Did Zarkon even want them alive? He doubted it. He wondered if Jax knew that. The longer Keith lived, the more he threatened Jax’s triumph. Keith clutched the bayard close. Fighting wasn’t an option—there were too many on the cruiser to even contemplate it—but holding the weapon gave him a second wind. He had to do this.

The screen closed as Keith reached the last half mile between him and the cruiser. As much as he wanted to take the bayard, they’d take it from him in a heartbeat. But leaving it in the Lion meant they’d just find it later. He stared at the red and white metal. His hopes that it’d give him an answer were dashed. Instead, he pushed it into its slot and hoped it’d be mistaken as simply part of the machine. His best chance to get out of the situation was for the mechanics to fix the Lion as they travelled, and when he thought they were done, he could break out and steal the Lion back.

It was unlikely. It was a gamble. But it was all he had as the cruiser’s bay doors closed. He looked out from the cockpit to see a hundred sentries armed and waiting. A small group of Galra stood at attention as Jax walked to the Lion’s rear. Keith grit his teeth. A hand knocked on the Lion’s back. Walking out from the Lion felt like surrender, even before he let them put him in cuffs.

Jax didn’t speak to him. A dozen sentries, a few Galra, and a masked sorcerer followed him. Keith’s skin crawled at the mask. He remembered the lightning; he remembered the teleportation. The Lions weren’t completely science, he knew, but whatever these people were went beyond the supernatural. There was something dark to them. The glowing gold eyes looked through him. When Keith looked away, he swore the sorcerer laughed. He’d find out something about them before he died, he thought. If only so he could kill at least one before they executed him.

They left him in a cell. There were no bars or windows to it. They didn’t bother to remove his cuffs, not that it stopped Keith from running his fingers over the metal door. There had to be a slot opening for food and water. If they wanted to kill him, he had no doubt that they’d shoot him in the end and space the corpse. Jax probably wanted to contact Zarkon before doing anything. Which meant he had an hour, max, to figure out a way to convince Jax not to kill him despite Zarkon’s orders. That… was going to be impossible. He slumped against the wall of his cell. His search for a slot had produced nothing. He drew his knees up to his chest and let his arms fall over them, circling them.

The Castle of Lions wouldn’t be close enough, and who knew where the other Lions were? There was no last-minute rescue coming. He hadn’t even said goodbye to the Red Lion, in the end. He’d still been convinced, on some level, that he’d escape. Part of him argued Zarkon would simply keep him captive, as bait for the others. But the more pragmatic part knew that he was a liability. So long as he was around, the Paladins could form Voltron to fight Zarkon. If Keith was dead, Zarkon could install his own pilot and Voltron would be unlikely to ever happen outside of his control.

Would the Red Lion forget him so easily, though? Keith clenched his fists. The Red Lion was stubborn and selective. Killing Keith might anger it and leave Zarkon unable to give it a new pilot. That, he decided, might be his saving grace. Maybe not saying goodbye had been a good decision. Things weren’t over between him and the Red Lion, and it knew that.

Hours passed. Dread mixed with relief. Zarkon didn’t want him dead yet. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want Keith tortured. His headache blossomed into a migraine, and he let his body list to the side. Eventually, he lay out on the metal floor, his helmet off. His forehead pressed against the cold metal. He shivered at the sensation but refused to move. His helmet’s screen had a clock. He watched the minutes vanish.

He drifted between a strange luminous slumber and colourful dreams that danced at the edge of reality. He imagined Shiro opening the door. He saw Lance laughing near him, his eyes black as night. Coran hummed an odd foreign song, hidden somewhere beyond the cell’s wals; Allura laughed. A hand stroked his hair. He couldn’t put a name to the figure—they were out of view, and he knew no one who would touch him like that.

Footsteps clanked outside the cell. He lifted his head and tried to move the rest of his body. But it wouldn’t move, and he wondered if he was still in a dream. Several pairs of footsteps passed before, finally, the door slipped open.

Sentries looked down at him. In front of the row of five, a Galra stood. He didn’t recognize them. “Get up,” the Galra sneered. They shot a contemptuous look at Keith’s form. “After all the destruction you did to Central Command, I’d have expected a Paladin to have some steel to them.” They waved at a sentry. “Deal with him.”

He was going to be shot. He tried to push himself up, but the dreams tangled around him like a spider’s web. It choked him. He saw a sorcerer’s face and its glowing eyes. He heard a low chanting and smelled a metallic rot. From the Galra’s eyes dripped quintessence, and Keith thought back to the honey-sweet smell of it on his hands.

Hands grabbed him. He tried to focus on their strength. It was something real—something other than the quick sensations and phantom images that swirled in his mind. What was wrong with him? He’d been better in the Red Lion. It had to have something to do with what the Galra had done to the wormhole.

Sentries pulled him to his feet. He wobbled and almost fell when they shoved him forward. It was magic, he thought. Like what the sorcerers wielded. He’d been near one on the way to the cell. But casting a spell on a prisoner they meant to interrogate or murder seemed pointless. So it had to be the wormhole.

The halls they led him through turned to the wormhole’s red and purple galaxy. He passed nothing but rooms and terminals, but it felt like he walked through the stars. He kept his eyes focused on the Galra leading him. His skin crawled: he suspected eyes were on him, dissecting his lop-sided gait and bleary eyes and the cuts that lined his face like it was a drawing.

Two weeks ago, he’d been a dropout from the Galaxy Garrison. Now he was being marched to talk to a galactic ruler—or worse, to be executed by his soldiers. The sentries’ cold hands grasped his forearm. Only the armor kept him from worrying they’d break his bones. The galaxy below his feet faded in and out. He thought about closing his eyes but he didn’t want to trip.

Breathe, he told himself. Yet he already was. A sense of calm had dug its way into his marrow. He heard a door open ahead and there, in the centre of the vortex, was a screen. Zarkon looked down, his glowing eyes cutting through the swirling colours. “Excellent,” he purred. “You’ve done well, Jax. And the Lion—?”

“In the hangar,” Jax said, right in front of the screen. Zarkon didn’t watch him: his eyes were pinned to Keith, picking him apart. What Zarkon found, Keith didn’t know. “Engineers are working to repair some of the damage crippling it.”

“Prevent permanent damage, but do not fully repair it,” Zarkon said. “Otherwise your captive will see fit to steal it back.”

Jax glanced over his shoulder to scrutinize Keith. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He turned back to Zarkon. “What do you wish us to do with the Paladin?”

“What does he believe his fate should be?” Zarkon’s weathered face didn’t deign to grin or smirk, but he radiated a certain self-satisfaction. “Let the Paladin speak.”

The sentries pulled back from him. Even Jax stepped to the side. The sudden loss of the sentries made him wobble. He forced himself to look at Zarkon. He shrugged. “There’s nothing to say,” he said. Asinine, he thought, but Zarkon’s mouth turned to a smirk.

 “You destroyed much of Central Command.” Zarkon’s hand lifted in a lazy gesture. “You attacked me—despite, I imagine, warnings from your comrades.” Zarkon’s hand dropped to his armrest. “It is rare that I compliment an enemy, you must understand. But you fought like a Galra.”

Keith stiffened. “That’s… kind of you.” It wasn’t. It may as well have been an insult. Galras were genocidal maniacs. They were power-hungry and cold-blooded. He thought back to the Arusians’ burning village. So much death and destruction for a simple distraction. “You still want me dead, though.” He could have bit his tongue off. _Why_ , he asked himself. Of all the stupid things to say—

“The spell’s still working,” Zarkon said. Keith blinked. It made the spirals worse. “Your eyes are following their patterns, even if you’re trying to hide it. Most would struggle to stand.” Keith grit his teeth. His legs shook beneath him. “Captain, is your Druid still present?”

“On the lower decks,” Jax said. Keith didn’t turn to look at the man: standing consumed his mind too much for that. “Do you require his presence, Your Majesty?”

“No,” Zarkon said. “Not yet. But have your Druid examine the Red Paladin.  When the spell begins to weaken, have them strengthen it. It will make transport much easier.” Zarkon was speaking long-term. Keith wasn’t about to die yet—or if he was, it was going to be public so he’d be made an example of what happened to dissent.

His muscles twitched. His hindbrain screamed at him to run. But there was nowhere to go, and he wouldn’t make it even if there had been. “I’m right here, you realize.”

Zarkon eyed him. “I’ve noticed.” Keith flushed and forced back a snarl. “Return him to Central Command. Unharmed is the preferable state, but if he decides to cause trouble, you are not held to the command.” The sentries stepped up behind him and clasped his arms again. “Escort vessels will meet you as you exit the system. And be sure to thank the Paladin, Captain. His mistake is your gain.” The screen closed.

The sentries turned him around and began to the march back to his cell. Jax met Keith’s eyes for only a second. His gaze washed over him like a wave and then dismissed him. Keith forced down the instinct to lash out. Jax would get his, Keith promised himself.

He let the sentries guide him. He didn’t struggle; he didn’t hesitate, or slow. They were machines. He doubted trickery had been programmed into them. But this time he focused on the sounds. He picked out the route and what lined it. He heard people tap away at terminals. Metal clanged as people opened lockers full of gear. He listened for the sound of machines and mechanics. He didn’t know what he’d do yet, but a plan was taking shape in his mind.

Small details stuck out. That sounded like a gun—that terminal sounded close to an engine, while patrols walked with a sullen lop-sided stride. Had their pay been docked? Did they get stuck with a double-shift? Who knew. But Keith knew they’d be a bit dull and distracted.

What kind of escape pods would the cruiser have? They’d need to be sizeable. Everywhere he walked, he heard Galra talking, and the ship could carry thousands. The Red Lion would be near their ships, stored in the hangar as it was.

Which meant that if he got away from the sentries, it’d be easy to hide in such a big ship. Even with the strange magic the Druids had done to him, and what a name for them at that, if he waited it out, he’d be fine again. Once his mind was stable, he could make a break for the hangar. If his memory was right, there were two engines to either side of it. It wouldn’t be hard to set them to blow, especially if his bayard still sat in the Lion. After that, he could load the Lion into a ship and sail away as the cruiser went up in flames.

It was an unlikely plan. It was a hard plan that relied on chance. How long would it take for the spell to wear off? How long would it take the ship to get back to Central Command—and how in contact was the cruiser with the escorts? There wasn’t a choice, though. If he got in the cell, he was fucked. When the sentries made him do a sharp turn, his stomach twisted. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get away with the effect the spell had on his stomach.

He let his left foot drag on the next step. The sentries tried to keep dragging him, but he let his other foot fall out from under him with an agonized groan. His armor clunked against the metal floor. He listened and waited. There were no sounds to this area—none other than his own, and the hum of lights. It had to be the cells. One of the sentries beeped at the other. Keith made out their vague outline in the vortex. It hurt to focus on it, so he didn’t. Instead, he let his right leg slip out and coil around the sentry’s. The heavy machine took effort to trip, but when it fell, it fell hard. It tried to drag down Keith with it, and when he twisted its wrist, nothing happened. He fell with it; the other sentry collapsed on top of them.

Keith’s armor saved him from the worst of it. But his bruises ached as he scrambled and twisted among the sentries, trying to escape their grips. His legs’ kicks punched dents into the sentries’ chests. One let go to grab its gun. He heard it begin to charge and dove under the other. The pulse bolt melted through the sentry’s steel. Nothing held him, and nothing stopped him from grabbing the other sentry’s gun after a moment’s search. “CEASE,” the remaining sentry demanded. He shot it where the face seemed to be.  No alarm sounded.

There were going to be bruises around his wrist, he thought. But it didn’t matter. He jogged instead of running: any faster, and he risked crashing his head against a wall. All he had were vague outlines and a few theories on how the galaxy swirled.

He ran a hand along the door out of the cellblock. There were a few dips—signs of other escaped prisoners, he wondered, or was it something more? He dismissed it for another time. He slapped the door’s button when he found it and ducked behind the wall to listen.

The galaxy’s design throbbed in time with his heart. Its edges twisted between open space: where the open doors were, everything curled around it, like wrapping paper had been spread over it. In the mess of colours, it was hard to pick out. But if he focused—

Voices echoed further down the halls. The cellblock led into an intersection of three hallways—he waited, listening, as footsteps came closer and closer. They were from the right. He couldn’t risk waiting: they might turn into the cellblock to check on things, and he didn’t know if they were close enough to see him dart out anyway. He slapped the button again as he left. It was the most he could do for hiding his tracks.

He needed to stick close to the cellblock for an escape route. He couldn’t predict where the Galra would assume he went, but he knew that the further he went in the halls, the more likely it was that he’d be caught. He looked up, hunting for vents, and took the first turn he saw. It took him several minutes to find something high above.

His hands slid against the walls as he jumped. The first try he landed on his ass, beside the rifle; the second, his gauntlets scraped against the vent cover. The third, two fingers wormed their way into the vent’s cracks and were almost pulled out of their sockets when he fell back down. The fourth, he managed to pulled out the vent cover. He threw the cover up and then the gun into the dark opening. The galaxy inside glinted as he hauled himself up.

Repositioning the vent cover was almost impossible. The screws had been pulled out, and where they’d gone, he wasn’t sure. Likely they were somewhere on the floor. He spent a solid minute crouched and breathing hard as he fiddled with the cover, trying to make it feel like it was part of the system. The galaxy clouded his view of the cover and made his stomach roil like he was on the high seas. He gave up after several minutes. It’d be better if he just wasn’t anywhere close to the mess he’d made.

For once, he wished he was small like Pidge. The vents were a tight fit, and his armor sometimes clanked against the walls and floor. He abandoned the rifle after he stumbled over it and it almost fired. The galaxy throbbed; after he crawled over a vertical shaft, he had to lay back and breathe. Exhaustion was kicking in: his mind drifted. He tried to guess where he was. Possibly, he thought, over terminals. The floor’s warmth hinted at that. He stripped off his gauntlets and ducked back into the shaft. He pushed his back tight against one of its walls. His hands steadied him. His legs stretched out, allowing him to slowly walk and slide down the shaft. Sheer force kept him from falling; his hands hurt, he thought distantly, but not enough to make him stop. His gauntlets balanced on his stomach.

The hangar was on the first floor. An eternity inched by before he passed two floors. He looked below and saw a vortex of colour: he listened, and he knew it was a fan. He squinted at it. It looked like it had a cover, but he didn’t want to test its strength or see if there were cracks for his hands and feet to fall into.

The wind pulsated below him. It slowed his descent and made him wobble dangerously. His helmet guarded his eyes, allowing him to see the ghostly impression of whipping blades. When he reached the bottom, the wind helped ease his staggered jump into the vents nearby. It cushioned the landing, though it turned the slow toss of his gauntlets into a heavy throw. They clattered down the tunnel. Keith froze, waiting. But he heard nothing over the fan’s roar, and figured the Galra couldn’t either.

He sat inside the vent. His heart thundered in his chest. It’d taken an hour to inch down the shaft. His hands burned, and his skin felt too tight over them. The colours hadn’t left. Something twisted in his stomach—hunger or motion sickness?—and he forced back the impulse to puke. Keep going, he thought. The longer he sat around, the less he’d get out of adrenaline and the more time aches would have to settle in.  

He donned his gloves before he forced himself to pick up the pace. If he found the hangar, he could leave the vents. The spell might not have been fading, but it only meant he’d have to be a bit more aware. It wouldn’t be a problem, he thought. He felt the dark of the vent more than he saw it.

Distant rumbling became his guide. The distant rumbling turned to a growl and then to a howl. He followed it, though he was careful not to hurry: he didn’t want to burst out of the vents and have a dozen mechanics and engineers staring at him. There were no alarms yet, and he preferred it stay like that. When the galaxy twisted and bent again, he stopped.

Zarkon had said the spell might wear off soon. _Might_. It was looking like a _won’t_ so far, he thought sourly. He pulled his helmet off and then his gauntlets. He ran his hands over his face and scrubbed at his eyes until he saw floating lights. The galaxy still throbbed away.

He put his gauntlets and helm back on. Galra spoke to each other, their voices echoing. It was useless information. Talk about petty squabbles and what the cafeteria was serving. The occasional number was called out, and Keith imagined some grunt writing it down. He prowled closer to the vent cover separating him from them.

“It’s the Red Lion,” a woman was saying. “There’s fixing the most recent shuttle from Yarin Prime, and then there’s toying with Altean tech. They’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t lose their hands.”

“It was pretty damaged, though,” another woman said. He couldn’t pinpoint her among the colourful chaos. “It didn’t even put up a shield when people started boarding it. Have you seen it? Because it looks like someone put it through a trash compacter.”

“From what transmissions are saying, that’d be the Emperor.” Solemn silence filled the room—barring the engines, which whirred away. “I’d advise no more chatter,” the new woman said. “The Emperor’s eyes are on us all.” Murmurs of praise to Zarkon mixed with a return to their work. Keith frowned. It was like a cult—a cult Zarkon had had ten thousand years to build.

But they were sheltered, he thought. They stayed within Central Command’s range. They were engineers. If he could frighten them without causing them to raise the alarm, he’d be set to sabotage the engine. What to do, though? Strange sounds wouldn’t be heard over the engine. Not unless he was willing to risk them investigating the vents. He wished he’d modified his armor, like Pidge had—Pidge had so many abilities he didn’t.

How fast could he destroy the engine? He wouldn’t be able to do two. The alarm would be raised. But one engine gone would be enough of a distraction, he thought. The cruiser would have to drop out of hyperspeed. He waited for another idea to present itself. None came. So he rammed his feet against the vent cover. Someone below shouted. He hit it again. It ripped free: he pushed himself after it. A hand tried to grab his arm as he fell but he lashed out with his other hand. It hit flesh and bone. Something crunched. A man yelled in pain. Most importantly, the man let go.

Figures zoomed around in his vision. It was hard to pick out everything: people moved too fast, and the galaxy lagged as it warped around their forms. He began to lash out at anything that came close. His feet wobbled when it came to steps. He almost tripped, but caught himself on a terminal. Buttons were clicked; the terminal beeped at him. But a punch landed on his helmet’s front and snapped his neck back.

Keith struck out with his leg and caught someone in the stomach. They lurched away from him, gasping, and Keith turned to look at the indecipherable terminal. Everything was bright. Everything looked the same. The galaxy’s curves and breaks revealed little on such a small scale. So he did the one thing he knew would fuck up the engines: he proceeded to slap every button and twist every knob. Engines were such delicate things. Even one thing going wrong could—

The engine’s scream made him backpedal. The alarms that began to blare didn’t rival it. A moment passed as he searched for the door—someone ran past him, desperately trying to fix when he’d done. He delivered a final kick to them as a goodbye. Their form toppled to the ground. When he left the engine room, the engine’s scream had raised to a screech, like two metal wheels grinding against each other.

He didn’t know where the hangar was, but he could guess. Masses of colour darted towards him. He ducked whenever he thought something might be coming. Someone tripped him once—but he managed to turn it into a roll. A pulse bolt crashed beside him. He thought about using his shields, but he couldn’t even tell where the bolts were coming from.

“Get him!” someone yelled as he sprinted into the hangar. He jumped what looked like a guard as he ran. They fell over when he slammed into them; his hands searched for their gun. It was small, he thought, and the test bolt he shot behind him took the form of a small black ball. A scream came from the target. His stomach tried to crawl out of his throat at the smell of burning flesh.

Any thoughts were interrupted when someone barrelled into him. He used their momentum to flip them over him and started running. He couldn’t see the ships, he realized. He got vague figures from the bends in light and colour, but he wasn’t sure how to find the buttons to open the door.

In the middle of the hangar, the Red Lion stood. He knew that. He remembered it. It was all he needed. He darted away from the centre and towards one of the ships. Could he command the Red Lion to step into the ship? Or would he need to load it manually? A pulse bolt scorched his side. It made him hunch as he reached the vessel. He fired off a series of bolts, scattered throughout the hangar.

More screams, more shouts, and more wails from the nearby engine followed him into the vessel. He shot the door button as the gangway lifted. Inside, he found no one working—likely too focused on keeping the Red Lion from disaster. An explosion happened in the distance. Outside, the sirens redoubled. His hands shook as he tried to figure out the guidance system for the vessel. He abandoned the pulse rifle by the pilot’s chair.

He reached out for the Red Lion’s presence. There was room in the back for it—the vessel was meant for transporting cargo, judging by what he’d seen running to the cockpit. He slapped the button he thought opened it. He yelped when heat blossomed below the ship. “Fuck,” he breathed as he quickly stopped the thrusters. “C’mon, buddy.” He tried to focus on the Lion. “We’re almost there.”

Fear made his hands shake. Was it angry at him? Did it want a new Paladin? Maybe it hated that he’d fought Zarkon. Maybe it thought he was an idiot. He certainly thought he was an idiot. He slapped another button. Something made a _kr-shk_ sound, but nothing visible happened. For all he knew, it’d turned on the lights in another part of the ship. Keep going, part of him urged. The other half wanted to sit on the ground and wait for the ship to go up in flames. But that half hadn’t been the part that’d saved Shiro or got him into the Galaxy Garrison.

He focused. The Galra symbols were nothing he understood. But there was always a logic to systems: if a button was close, the one above was open. He ripped his gauntlets off and tossed them to the ground. His fingers traced the console. There were markings written on them, he realized. He tried to remember the Altean the Red Lion had translated for him. He hoped there’d been overlap between Altea and Galra before Zarkon.

Pulse bolts hammered at the vessel. But he sucked in a deep breath and began to slap any button he vaguely recognized. The vessel jerked forward as more thrusters turned on. Someone screamed, likely hit by them. The lights on the cockpit flicked on and off. But then, far above and back, something moved. Keith staggered away from the console. There, in the cargo hold, where the ceiling should have been, was bright galactic light.

He staggered back to the console. He squeezed his eyes closed and thought of the Red Lion. “Please,” he said. His hands were in fists. “We need to leave. We’re--- _I’m_ —going to die. I’m sorry I fucked up. I won’t do it again. But if I’m going to make things right, I’m going to need your help.”

The sirens went silent. The pulse bolts vanished. The engine’s wail died. There was a screen in front of him. Zarkon looked down from it, a faint smile on his face. “It would have worked,” Zarkon told him. Keith stumbled back on smooth polished metal, nothing like the roughness of the ship’s floor. “The Red Lion would have come.” A hunched figure stood beside Zarkon, wrapped in dark cloth. Everything was dimmer now. The colours were gone, the galaxy sucked back into space and away from Keith. “Look outside, Paladin, and you’ll see the truth.”

He looked with clear eyes away from the screen and to what lay beyond it. Central Command waited outside the glass. There wasn’t a hangar or soldiers around him. Just wide, empty space. When he looked down at his hands, his gauntlets were still there. He reached out for the Red Lion and felt nothing. He turned to see a room—a prison—of steel and hardened glass. A Druid sat in the room, their legs crossed. They cupped the galaxy in their hands, and he watched as the tendril tied to his chest withered and faded to nothing.

“Why,” he asked. He blinked. For a moment, he saw the colourful galaxy spread out before him. It vanished when his eyes opened. “What—“ His hands fisted. He turned on his heel, back to the image of Zarkon. “What did you do,” he hissed.

“It was a test,” Zarkon said. “A simple test to see if what I saw was correct. You were so close, Paladin. You would have done much better if not for the magic, but then I wished to see how you’d adapt. ‘Quite brutally’ seems to be the answer. To yourself and others. How many thousands were on that ship?”

Keith tried to breathe. Rage and exhaustion made it hard. “They were in the way,” Keith said. He regretted it instantly when Zarkon’s hint of a smile spread into something wilder, something uglier.

“And that, Paladin, is why you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	3. Chapter 3

They took his armor. The pair of Galra took it piece by piece while sentries, near the entrance, held their guns aloft. The Druid watched. The mesh beneath the armor itched, though he was grateful they left it behind. Zarkon didn’t watch—the screen’s feed was static—but Keith didn’t doubt that his behaviour would get back to him. He stared at the Druid who watched from the middle of the room. “You’re going to regret this,” he told the Druid. Their gold eyes blinked. “Whatever powers you wield, I’m going to—“

“Enough!” snapped one of the Galra. “Druid, take your leave. Metal will take care of us.” The Galra leaned back, away from the Druid’s gaze. “I will not say it again.”

“Your bravado,” the Druid said, “does not hide your fear.” They looked away from the Galra to stare at Keith. Their voice echoed, indistinct in accent or gender. “Your mind is interesting. I look forward to seeing you again.” The Druid stood. Their robes flowed like water around them. Keith unbuckled his chestplate as the other Galra tugged at the edges, but he was more focused on the almost floating motion of the Druid’s walk.

“Bad luck,” the confrontational Galra muttered. “I’d say be wary, but your back is already as stiff as a board.” The chestpiece clicked free and ended up in a floating metal bin. A foam material cushioned the armor, which was placed in finely cut impressions. So finely cut, they fit the armor precisely. Keith tried not to shiver. Had they taken measurements while he was in the spell, or had Zarkon known the armor’s original dimensions from so long ago?

They left him soon after. The screen’s static was the only sound other than the pattering of his bare feet as he walked to the window. The glass revealed space, ships, and the ring around Central Command. It reflected the room’s interior when he stepped back: a rectangular room of steel, with a small sleeping bag, a console in front of the glass, and two doors. Investigation revealed the door far to the left led to a cramped bathroom with a military shower. Everything was metal, even the toilet.

He walked to where the front door was. There was a dip where a shielded pad waited; it was the only marking on it. He’d seen it open and close the door for others. But when he touched the shield, nothing happened. He couldn’t claim to be surprised.

There was nothing to sit on other than the ground. He started his vigil of the console screen standing. But the test had been exhausting, and after an hour of waiting, he found himself drifting to the sleeping bag. It was cold in the room—he didn’t know where the vents were, couldn’t spy them, but he felt the cold air against his skin. He glared at the screen. Did he want Keith asleep? Would Keith wake up to another test? He didn’t know how to tell the difference between the spells and the real world. The pain he’d felt had been real. The panic, the people, and the sensations… What was the difference between reality and what the Druids could do? He’d know better than to believe the swirling galaxies but he doubted Zarkon would use them again.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself as he buried into the sheets. He was too tired and too cold to think. His body felt like one giant bruise. Even if he escaped, he wouldn’t be able to do much. The test had gifted him exhaustion and a sense of doubt. Sleep would dull them both, he told himself. He shivered under the covers, the metal floor cold against his back, but his own breathing lulled him to sleep.

He woke to metal clunking. He jerked up to see a tray on the ground and a bundle beside it. The screen was off. The front door’s glassy surface looked undisturbed, but he knew that was a lie. He stumbled to his feet and limped to the tray. A metal cover topped a small plate. To its left, there was a single utensil—a fork. A small canister of what he assumed was something drinkable was to the right. Beside the canister, but outside the tray, a purple bundle of cloth lay free. Clothes, he thought. He frowned. He didn’t want to wear Galra garb—whatever that looked like, outside of armor and robes. Which made him wonder. What was the Galra home planet? What did their culture look like? Was it all military, warped by Zarkon? Or did something normal remain? The answer likely lay in the bundle.

He ate first, though he brought the bundle to his makeshift bed. He sat against the wall the sleeping bag pressed against. The plate’s metal cover warmed his cold hands. Beneath it, some purple meat sat beside a rainbow of vegetables. One looked like asparagus—if asparagus was indigo blue with strange seeds attached to its sides. He prodded at a white bulb and took a sniff. It smelled like a mix of oranges and grass. When he pressed his fork into its side, a chunk peeled away easily.

Everything came apart easily. The food was mushy, he thought, though nowhere close to the goo the Castle of Lions served. He supposed he could call it slightly overcooked in Earth terms. But the meat carried a heavy spice he wasn’t used to—something close to Thai food, though the fire was calmed by the light fruity tastes of the vegetables.

It was weird. Beyond weird. It was good food. Better food than he’d expected for a prisoner of war. His prison smelled of the outdoors by the time he finished. He prayed nothing disagreed with him. There was no way the Galra knew for certain what humans could eat. He reached for the canister and popped the top off, revealing a cup of seafoam green liquid. He gave it a sniff. He snuffled at the smell of heavy pine mixed with honey. He had to choke it down. It made his headache lessen but it made him want to puke.

He lay back on the sleeping bag and focused on breathing through the nausea. His brain refused to shut up, too obsessed with the food. The Galra were cats. Cattish. As cat-like as aliens could be. Why, then, did they serve him vegetables and cooked meat. An adaptation to their humanoid intelligence and forms? Maybe meat didn’t provide enough calories for their body’s needs. Maybe it’d been a forced adaptation: meat took a lot of energy and vegetation to support, and who knew the condition of the Galra Empire’s home planets? If they still existed, he mused.

Fine red strands wrapped and criss-crossed the cloth bundle. They were cool to the touch and soft as silk. He examined them when he unwrapped the bundle. The thick almost-yarn proved tougher than its softness had promised—tough, fiber-like, and almost ropey. Would it be useful? Potentially, he concluded when he gave it a yank and it remained whole.

The outer cloth was canvas-like. It was heavy, which was useful. Another blanket, he thought, which joined the sleeping bag. The insides were less silky than the thread, or heavy like the canvas. The clothes were smooth and cottony, dyed in Galra colours—dark purple, orange, and red. He laid them on the canvas.

The uniforms he’d seen on the Galra were geometric. There were blocky shapes, rectangular slits of orange, and the Empire’s emblem that decorated the soldiers’ uniforms. But these, he thought, were civilian clothes. Even a few weeks as a Paladin had made him used to armor and uniforms. He held the shirt aloft and squinted at it.

It was, of all things, a dusty red. Pillars of yellow rose from the straight lines of the shirt. The neckline looked as though it’d been cut with a straight razor, and the loose sleeves contrasted sharply with the tight chest. The baggy pants were a solid orange. They were, Keith thought, desert colours. They made him think of Utah and Arizona, of the place near his cabin and the desert planets that the Galaxy Garrison had taught them about.

He peeled off his mesh. The clothes were cool against his skin. He tried not to feel guilt. They were clothes, not declarations of loyalty. He wished he had the knife to fiddle with. It was good for washing away the worst emotions as he examined it and spun it in his grip. “Ugh,” Keith groaned. He almost wished someone had been caught with him.

The last few things in the canvas bundle made him pause. A pair of leathery gloves—brown with the red Galra sigil on the back—and soft shoes the colour of a setting sun. He put on the shoes and discarded the gloves on the other side of the room. They were just clothes, he told himself, but the gloves were too much. He tried not to hate the feel of the Galra clothes against his skin. They were soft, airy, and built for warmer climes. They also came from genocidal galactic conquerors. He’d rather chop his own hand off than wear their sigil.

He didn’t know how much time passed. There were no clocks on the console, and he couldn’t access any programs. He spent what felt like an hour pressing buttons and tapping keys. Nothing came of it. He lay back down on his bed and used the canvas as a partial blanket. Sleep stole away time. He’d awaken for a bit, stare out the full-wall windows, and then drift back into oblivion.

His dreams were full of the galaxy’s colours and screams from the cruiser. He dreamed of him escaping, the Red Lion in the cargo bay, as the cruiser behind him exploded. There were no screams in space, yet he listened to thousands of people scream, their voices echoing in the small ship. A headache woke him. The sterile lights of the room hurt. He buried deeper into the blankets, but the heat made things worse. He reached for the Red Lion and felt nothing.

Times passed. The dreams worsened. He saw himself fall from the shaft, into the whirling fan’s blades. When his mind should have died, he was wide awake. He looked up to see Shiro looking down. The man’s eyes were gold—Galra gold, he thought. When he woke, he crawled to the shower, hoping to find comfort in the cool water. But the sound of the shower made the headache worse, and the water stung against his skin. He shivered in his wet clothes.

It hurt to think, but he needed to. Was it the food’s fault he felt so bad? An aftereffect of the spell? Was it an injury worsening, or were the Galra pumping in toxins to his room as part of an interrogation? He gulped water from the sink and slathered cold water over his face. It hurt to look into the mirror: it reflected light back.

He woke to the clunk of metal closing. His tray was gone. The gloves were beside his head, on a new tray of food. “Fuck,” he hissed. “ _Fuck_.” He staggered to his feet. His limbs were stiff. Sleep made his eyelids droop. But the door was closed, and his hands found nothing. His stomach twisted—from hunger? From the lingering food from before? Or something else?

There were so many questions, he thought. He stared at the tray of food. The plate looked identical; same with the canister. Whoever had been in the room had left behind the canvas. He glared at the window, and the console in front of it. The blank screen reflected his glare back at him.

The food was similar. Moist meat—red this time—was neatly separated from colourful vegetables. Pink, cyan, and leaf green. It tasted like a melange of things from Earth, so close yet not. It was dry in his mouth, despite the mushy texture. He ate everything individually: the pink carrot by itself, then the blue lump, and then the cyan rings. The meat tasked of fishy pork.

When he finished, he organized the utensil and plate, downed the thick liquid in the canister that reminded him of strawberries and mint, and placed the tray in front of the door. Right in front of it: if someone stepped in, they’d knock the tray. It was a poor alarm system, he knew, but it was what he had.

But he didn’t wake for the next meal’s carrier, or the one after. He received new clothes that were different only in their size. They were closer to what his size was, and Keith wondered what happened when he was asleep. The thought of a Galra guard measuring his arms while he slept felt stupid, but how were the measurements for the clothes getting better?

It took another four meals before he got a new set of clothes. He spent his time between meals working out and sleeping. There was nothing else to do, other than stare at the console and feel sick. He would have killed for a book. He’d have sold his right arm for anything other than food and blankets.

And one day, he woke to the console’s hum. He rolled over to stare at the screen. There was a small map on the surface. It was drawn in red lines on a black background. A little arrow at the bottom showed him what direction he was meant to go in. It as a simple route, he thought, marred by strange intersections that were marked with heavy dots. He stood and walked to the console, memorizing the lines. When the door opened behind him with a harsh whisper, he wasn’t surprised.

There was no food to eat. There were no new clothes. If he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t have stayed even if there had been. He couldn’t take another minute of the room. He went to the bathroom and didn’t look back.

The halls were identical. Plain grey metal stretched out with no windows. Nobody except for Keith passed through them. Doors marked the walls, with small indents for hand keypads. He touched one as he passed. Nothing happened, which was unusual for Galra tech. Generally if he touched it, it eagerly responded.

He kept walking. He almost wished for the gloves as his hands became chilled and stiff. His headache grew. “Where are you taking me?” he muttered to himself as he took the twists and turns he remembered from the map. It’d been a small representation of the route, even for being on a computer screen. What he’d thought was a mile walk turned into a hike. He tried several more doors, but none opened.

The first sentry he met was stationed beside an elevator. It was the first non-hall thing he’d seen—he’d been in the prison quarter, he figured. “Welcome,” it said. “You are the Red Paladin.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said. There wasn’t another explanation for his presence, particularly as a human. “Where am I going?”

The elevator door slid open. “Travel well,” it said, “and may the three moons guide you.”

“Uh, what?” But the sentry said nothing. It held its gun in a tight grip—a grip tight enough that Keith couldn’t pry the gun away for his own purposes. “Great,” he said and sighed. He felt grimy, tired despite all his sleeping, and annoyed. He contemplated the waiting elevator.

It was shaped like a capsule. Smooth glass walls revealed the station’s interior: that of metal, wires, and closed metal doors. He looked up and up and the shaft stretched so far, it blurred. He leaned forward to get a better view of the inside. The sentry pushed him with the butt of its gun; he staggered forward. Only the bar around the capsule kept him from falling. Doors slid shut behind him.

He twisted around to see a series of bright keys projected on to the glass. A series lit up, controlled by something he couldn’t see; the top button was pressed, and the capsule launched through the shaft. He refused to fall. The initial lurch almost dragged him to his knees. But it lessened as it soared up, and he stood straight, his back pressed to the wall. He took stock through bleary eyes and an unhappy stomach.

Where was he going? Unknown, other than ‘up’. But he doubted he was going to interrogation. There was unease, but not terror in what was happening. The sentry hadn’t been hostile. He was dressed, though unfed and slightly tired. How long had he been wearing the clothes? If he knew the precise time, he might be able to guess what was going to happen. He lifted an arm and sniffed his pits. It was musky, he concluded, but nothing repellant.

Despite the clothes, though, he felt naked. No armor, no weapon, and no people to back him up… It made him tense. It made him wonder how much of his state was planned. But it depended on what the result of the plan was. He rubbed his hands against his eyes. He’d take things one step as a time, he promised. Don’t overthink it. Don’t worry. Keep an eye out for opportunity but survival was the most important thing. It’s what Shiro would say. He wondered where the man was. Had they captured him or the others? That’d be enough for the Galra to drag him up into the rest of the ship.

The capsule jerked to the right. Keith watched the door he’d enter slide closed. It took several turns before rising once again. When it slid to a halt, he felt relieved. The relief vanished when the door opened to a cavernous windowed room. There—at the other end, on a throne, on a dais, surrounded by Galra—was Zarkon.

Zarkon looked away from the Galra speaking before him. Keith was too far to pick out his features, but his voice echoed. “Enough, Prorok,” he said. “We have a guest.” None of the Galra turned to look at him. Their backs were straight and their armor gleamed. “I believe this is our first true meeting.”

What did he even say? The impulse was a solid _fuck you_ , but he preferred not to be struck down. “Great,” he said.

Zarkon laughed. “Come closer. Let me see the fearsome Red Paladin Princess Allura has sent to fight the Empire. I’m sure my men will appreciate seeing such a new alien race.”

It was a strange feeling to think of himself as an alien. But there was no time to think about that: he grit his teeth and began to walk towards Zarkon and his lackeys. Keith wasn’t much to look at. He became keenly aware of that as Galra after Galra picked him apart with sharp eyes. The lack of visible pupils made it worse: where did their eyes linger? Who shared side-long glances? Keith forced himself to look away from them. Zarkon looked down from his throne, yet avoided looking down his nose.

Zarkon’s massive form fit in equally massive armor. His eyes were slits of light, and his purple skin looked leathery. A pinkish scar slashed down his face, spawning from his left eye and darting down his cheek to his lips and almost to his chin’s edge. Was it new? But pinkishness might mean something different to the Galra. Keith stopped at the base of the dais. He refused to cringe back as Zarkon’s sharp-tipped fingers tapped  on the throne’s arm. “Well,” Keith said. “I’m here.” There was a room-wide pause at him speaking. It scraped at the steel in his spine. But he refused to flinch back. He looked Zarkon in the eyes. “Are you going to throw another test at me?”

He glanced to either side of him. The robed figure was close enough for him to see thick locks of white hair. On the other, a Galra with protruding bottom fangs and thick eyebrows watched him. Presumably, he thought sourly. Who knew with those ghostly eyes?

“Are you eager for one?” Zarkon asked. “I suppose I could make you fight with your bayard. Or perhaps hand to hand combat with some of my finest. But that would be a waste of both our times, and I feel you’re a man protective of your energies. The rest of you are dismissed. Prorok, I trust you will follow your orders to the letter.”

The tusk-toothed Galra nodded. But his fur seemed to bristle slightly—not that Zarkon seemed to care. Keith watched the various Galra file away, towards the elevator. One moved slower than the rest, his eyes glued to Keith. His craggy face was lined with a goatee and strong sideburns. When Keith met his gaze, the Galra turned away, following the others. The entire experience was... weird. He turned back to Zarkon. “Why did you show me to them?”

The robed figure was still to his side. Keith had a better view now, though that only showed a sharp nose and chin. Zarkon spoke. “You’ve mixed up the order, Paladin.” Zarkon leaned forward. “Tell me, do you sense the Red Lion?”

Keith’s lips turned to a deep frown. He didn’t like the answer. “I haven’t for a long time,” he said. “What does that have to do with them?” Keith’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no way it was stolen—“

“Not stolen,” Zarkon said. “I’d have purged my commanders if it had been. No, Paladin, it’s been moved far from Central Command. To somewhere your clothes would not look out of place.”

Home planet, he thought. Or somewhere in the central Galra system. His hands turned to fists, though he couldn’t claim surprise. “What does that have to do with them?”

“Think deeply about what’s happened, Paladin. Shields fell to let you free from my grasp. You were collected, and the Red Lion secreted away from Central Command. Then I show you my high command and reveal that this demonstration was for a purpose.” Zarkon’s eyes picked him apart. “What am I thinking?”

Zarkon would never let the Paladins and Castle of Lions escape of his own volition. But if it’d been a simple malfunction, would he have moved the Red Lion? Unlikely, if simple repairs could fix the problem. The display of Central Command’s upper echelons served a purpose. “You’ve got a traitor,” Keith said. “Someone let us out, and you can’t trust the Red Lion around Central Command because what if they get their hands on it? But I’m not sure where that leaves me. If anything, they’re an ally of mine.”

“Are they?” Zarkon asked. “Perhaps they simply want to take my place against Voltron. Or they desire Voltron for themselves. But even if they are your ally, Paladin, that does not mean they are helpful. After all, they lost you the Red Lion. It’s systems away, and I will not be bringing it back until I believe I can properly secure it.”

Keith’s frown turned to a scowl. “You want me to find the traitor, don’t you?” Zarkon’s smile made Keith flinch back. “You showed me commanders so that I’d recognize them and be able to report them back to you. And then you’ll let me near the Red Lion.”

“You say that as though it’s a trifle,” Zarkon said. He rested his chin on his clasped hands. “Already you can feel its absence. It’s keen—sharp like a knife and cutting far deeper. You’ve spent weeks in close contact with its mind. Now it’s gone, Paladin, and you find yourself tired and distracted. I felt like that when the Black Lion was taken from me—“

“ _What_?” Keith reeled back. His mind tried to grapple with the statement. It explained the weapons Zarkon had wielded in their fight, his knowledge of Voltron’s power and obsession with it. That’s why it’d been trapped in the Castle. Was that why he’d been able to dismantle Voltron? A flush crept up his neck, but it wasn’t embarrassment. It was light-headedness. Why hadn’t Allura told them?

“Ah,” Zarkon laughed. “I see the Princess neglected to mention this. Unfortunate. Perhaps if you’d known, you wouldn’t have charged into battle so recklessly. But that is already done. I would give you time to absorb such knowledge, but I feel I must make my offer quickly. If you find my traitor, I will reunite you with your Lion. This will not be freedom. But it will be succor in a time for distress.”

The traitor was his biggest ally now. But he wondered if the Red Lion’s absence would turn to something darker. “I need to think,” he lied. There was no way he’d do Zarkon’s work for him. But pretending to might buy him time—time to escape, and time to figure out how to get the Red Lion back.

“Of course.” Zarkon leaned back. “I’m sure you have much to absorb and understand. You’ll have to stay in your room, unfortunately, as I cannot trust you completely. But I’ll be arranging things, Paladin, and I expect an answer soon.”

Keith shook his head. “I—“ He didn’t know what to say. “Do you have the others?” he asked. Zarkon smiled and waved for the sentries. “Zarkon—“ The sentries took him by the arms, strangely gentle, and they pulled him away. “Zarkon!” He tried to turn back to the Galra, but the sentries’ strides were fast and their grasps turned tight when he fought. They brought him into the elevator. He turned to face Zarkon and his rictus smile and he tried not to say it but it came out anyway. “ _Please_.”

The doors were closing. But Zarkon’s voice echoed. “The traitor first, Keith.”  


	4. Chapter 4

He sat against the glass wall and waited. Time didn’t pass in space—not like it did on Earth. There was no rising and setting sun to track, nor were there birds’ chirps or coyotes’ howls. Maybe, he thought, there were tricks he didn’t know. Maybe he could track the passage of smaller ships, or how the ring that circled Central Command spun. But he found his attention wandered too much for that. He’d spot a freighter emblazoned with strange markings, and his mind would wash over it like water. Then it’d recede, distracted by regrets and frustration. The ebb and flow played games with his mind. He wondered, sometimes, if that was the plan. Leave him with an impossible choice, alone, and then watch him destroy himself. It was cruel enough for Zarkon.

The coldness of space pressed through his shirt’s thin cotton. He enjoyed it as one of the few luxuries of his room. It wasn’t that the space was cold—it was that it was numbingly neutral. No sounds could be heard, and there was nothing to toy with other than his sheets. Everything was dim, except for the starships that cruised around Central Command. He watched them, only awake due to the cold.

Who was the traitor? What would he even do with the knowledge? Zarkon wanted him to turn on them, but the traitor was his most likely escape route. If he said no, would he be killed? It was likely, he thought. Zarkon’s… weirdness aside, if he wouldn’t bend to Zarkon’s will, he was useless.

That’s what the odd friendliness was, after all. Manipulation. Transparent and unsettling. “Asshole,” Keith muttered. But it lacked heat. He didn’t want to think on why, but his eyes drifted around the room, searching for cameras. As before, nothing presented itself. He dug his fingers into the back of his neck and lifted the feathery hair that stretched over it. The cold curled over his skin, unfurling like a clean white sail.

Despite the bland temperature, he was hot. He didn’t know if it was sickness or stress. He’d been told, when he was part of the Galaxy Garrison, he had a high stress tolerance. “You shut down,” an instructor had said; “and you do what’s necessary. Don’t let it get on your evals or they’ll shove you into counselling.”

Shiro had been less enthusiastic. “Shutting down kills,” he’d said. “You need to talk to someone before then.” He’d leaned forward. His young face had been scar-less and his dark hair unmarred by white. “I’m saying this as your mentor and friend, Keith. The military’s both the most boring and terrifying thing you’ll ever experience. Being annoyed about the former and numb about the latter… not smart.” He’d written a number down for Keith to call. “Dr. Weisen is worth talking to. She’ll understand.”

He didn’t bother calling her. He didn’t need help: all he needed to do was keep that numbness and clear thinking, no matter what. It’d been the same clarity that’d made him argue leaving Allura. Had it earned him friends? No. It never had. But he’d been right, part of him thought. Zarkon was the Black Paladin. The Galra wielded strange magic. Voltron had been destroyed and its Paladins and the Castle spread throughout space.

Allura was important. Keith liked Allura—few people were as brave, smart, or resilient—but he wondered if she’d even been expecting them to sail into Central Command to save her. He doubted it. She’d known the risks. He could only imagine the words she’d have with them if they were all together. _You should have trusted my judgement_ was what his mind predicted. If anyone could have escaped Central Command, it’d have been the woman who could change forms, resurrect planets, and lead a resistance against the Galra.

But none of this helped him. The calm was fraying. The Red Lion was gone. Who knew where the other Paladins were? For all he knew, they lay in the room next door. He pressed his cheek against the glass. He hungered for the temper that fuelled him in battle. Rash decisions were common outside of shutting down: he remembered Lance reminding him on the Balmera not to hurt it. He wondered, then, what Lance was thinking. Away, away his thoughts went from Zarkon’s offer. Maybe the thoughts were his fears—that he’d make a rash decision, or the calm would break. He needed to think; he needed to plan.

There were three things to think about. First: the traitor was his best bet out. Attacking Central Command was out of the question for the Paladins. Voltron couldn’t be formed, and Zarkon was too powerful. There would be reinforcements for Command until he was gone and everything was repaired. Other Paladins were either stranded with the damaged Castle, or captured. None of those meant they could help.

Second: Keith’s utility to Zarkon went as far as luring the traitor out and potentially soothing the Red Lion. For all Zarkon’s long looks and strange overtures, Keith didn’t believe any truth behind them. If he refused to lure the traitor out, there was little reason to keep him alive. It wouldn’t be hard to fake his continued existence if needed, and he didn’t know if the Red Lion could feel his presence so far away. If it had been taken to the Galra home planet, he amended, though he didn’t think Zarkon would have much reason to keep it around. If the Red Lion was kept away from him long enough, would it forget him? Zarkon could introduce a new potential pilot to the Lion. When Keith died, the replacement could swoop in.

Third: for all Keith’s skills as a fighter and pilot, he wasn’t going to be able to take out all of Central Command, fly through several systems, and find the Castle, other Paladins, or the Red Lion. He could try to contact other inmates, of course. Maybe he’d be able to organize something. But a full-scale revolt was a thing of dreams.

He could fake it. If he agreed to search, he’d buy the traitor time to hopefully get him out. Zarkon had to have thought of that, though. Yet what could Zarkon do? Increase security further? Interrogate his sincerity? The former was impossible. He could fake the latter, barring any strange magic use. In which case, he wouldn’t have bothered asking Keith to find the traitor. He’d just let things progress until he rooted through Keith’s mind.

The thought came and went so casually, as though his skin didn’t crawl at the thought. The Red Lion’s presence came to him mechanical and foreign, so different from his tastes of Galra magic. The Lion was an alien AI: it knew without asking, and it said little, preferring to press against his thoughts with warmth. Warm and heavy, the Red Lion felt like a drug. Only adrenaline and his training kept him awake when piloting it.

If the traitor didn’t help him, he was fucked. But he was fucked if he refused. More fucked, he figured. But that didn’t mean he should run to Zarkon, promising to help. If he agreed too fast, he’d be suspicious; too slow, and Zarkon would get angry.

For now, though, he focused on the cool hardened glass. Only the vague thought that people passed by in ships kept him from taking off his clothes. He dozed as he waited for a guard to visit. He let his limbs go limp and his breaths even out. He dug his hidden right hand into his thigh: the nails left imprints. Don’t sleep, he thought. He wasn’t allowed. He needed to see who was coming.

His hand went limp before anyone came. His legs were asleep underneath him, and the fever that racked his body made him shiver. But he’d decided to mime sleeping here, and he wasn’t about to quit. When the metal door whished open, Keith couldn’t help but stiffen. Heavy boots clunked against the floor. Keith lifted his head to see the reflection in the mirror.

It was a Druid. If Keith was the type to wager, it was probably the Druid who’d created the test. Who else had expressed such interest in him? But Druids seemed to be honoured—or at least feared. Would one seriously play guard to him? He eyed the Druid’s unsettlingly graceful movements. “I didn’t think they sent Druids on guard duty. The one I fought certainly wasn’t interested in bringing me food trays.”

The Druid crouched to rearrange the tray. Their long fingers wrapped around the fork and straightened it. “I’ve heard of your little fight.” The voice from the hood remained stubbornly smug and indistinct. “I was surprised you survived when I first heard it. I thought, perhaps, that the legends of the Paladins carried some truth.” The Druid stood. “Yet here you are, pressed against glass like a sulking child, shivering and stubborn. The Emperor has little to fear if you are to be judged as an example.”

“Would it be better if I tried to fight you when you entered?” Keith turned away from the glass. The Druid’s robes were a vivid purple, far from the gossamer violet of the reflection. “I’m not a moron. The last one of you I met used _lightning_. And I had armor and a bayard then.” Keith uncurled. It hurt—his legs were stiff, as were his spine and shoulders—but he needed height. He took a shaky step forward. He was shorter than the Druid. But all that mattered was that he was _less_ short.

“Then you’re not a complete fool, despite fighting the Emperor.” The Druid ghosted forward. Keith forced himself not to jerk back. “Your mind was… interesting. Cold, even with the panic.” The Druid’s head tilted to the side. Keith tried to peer into the hood. He caught a glimpse of gold and pale lilac skin. “It could be useful, if you let it.”

“To the Galra?” Keith asked. He couldn’t stifle a snort. “I doubt Zarkon would trust me to clean my own toilet without a dozen guards watching.”

“He is not so weak as to fear you,” the Druid snapped. “You could walk Command without a guard or chains, and there would be nothing to fear from you.”

The Druid was—unsurprisingly—fucking weird. “Then why aren’t I?” Keith’s legs were warming. He took a languid step closer, turning it into a prowl. He frowned at the Druid. “I’m unarmed, locked in a metal room. Someone’s afraid of me.”

“Fools are,” the Druid said.

“You thought the legends might be right when you heard of me,” Keith said. “I bet the legends are pretty frightening. I don’t even get a regular guard. I get a Druid. You making sure I don’t get up to something?”

“Loud fools would enjoy chattering about risks. It is best to silence them before their weakness spreads.” The Druid drew themself to their full height. It wasn’t the tallness of Zarkon or Sendak, but it didn’t need to be to exceed Keith. The Druid was a Galra, after all.

“Whatever you say,” Keith decided. The Druid’s dysfunction was their own business. Keith smelled Issues, and he’d never been a fan of being someone’s therapist. Particularly if they were enemies. The Druid bristled. “The food’s interesting.”

The Druid seemed to pause. “Pardon?”

“The food,” Keith repeated, forcing himself not to be condescending. “It’s nothing I’ve seen before, which isn’t surprising until I have to eat it.”

The Druid eyed him. “It’s traditional Galra fare, from the home planet.”

 “I figured,” Keith said. “I don’t see you guys having space Chinatowns or Little Italys.” The silence from the Druid forced him to keep talking. “The meat’s a bit fishy sometimes.” He needed to stop speaking, he thought. But something inside him was desperate to make this normal, like it was him talking to a sharper and colder Lance and not a Galra Druid. “Uh. Do you like it?” He didn’t want to know. He shouldn’t be asking. “Nevermind—“

“The kalix is an ugly animal,” the Druid said, “but the meat can be fine. I suspect that’s your fishy meat. They require high salt contents to survive. For myself, I prefer not to indulge, but some of the older soldiers enjoy the reminder of home.” The Druid sounded as uncomfortable as Keith. It was the only blessing about the conversation. “I shall take my leave. You’ll be glad to know there’s no kalix today.” And then the Druid swept from the room.

Keith had been alone. Keith had spent a solid year in the desert, searching for the source of the energy he felt. He’d kept Shiro’s old clothes, hoping and praying he’d return. All he’d had was the occasional visit to town, a radio, and an internet connection. The coldness had fuelled him until he’d seen the fireball from space. What was so different now?

He mopped the sweat up from his forehead. He was too tired for this. He didn’t bother with the food: he took a cold shower, hoping it’d help, but he came out shivering and dragged the tray closer. He didn’t trust his hands to hold it steady. The tray waited by his makeshift pillow while he wrapped himself in blankets.

He skipped the drink this time. Whatever was wrong with him—space flu, slow poisoning from the food and drink, or something from the magic used by the Druids—he figured the usually disgusting liquid didn’t help. When he rooted through the vegetables and meat and picked out the palatable parts, he cracked the lid on the drink just to sniff. He cringed back at the overpowering smell of loam and sweetness. The stench didn’t leave for a long while after.

He drank from the tap. He scooped up the chilly water in his hands and tried not to slurp. It wasn’t enough. He thought about dumping the liquid in the toilet and cleaning out the container. But the smell had been too gross to release into his room. Another time, he thought, with a different kind of drink.

The blankets weren’t enough to keep the cold away. They trapped the strange waves of heat that made him sweat, and he bounced between kicking blankets off and dragging them closer. Keen burning worry lanced through him. He waited for him mind to catch up and provide a reason. Nothing came. The worse it became, the harder it was to breathe.

Was it a delayed reaction to everything? But for however cracked the cold feeling was, it couldn’t be that. Zarkon’s words haunted him. There was no way he was so _dependent_ on the Red Lion. Yet his thoughts were dark and misty and ugly. Packed with worry, he thought of all the bad. What if Shiro was dead? What if they dismantled the Red Lion, destroying it? What if Zarkon tortured him, or another Paladin was captured? His mind took his calm, devouring it, and vomited up panic.

He wanted to fight, he thought. Fighting burned away the excess. It took anything beyond the mission and left him with raw strength. It ate other things—bigger pieces of information than _dodge_ or _parry_ —but that’s what the other Paladins were for. Remembering.

He dragged himself to his feet. There were forms he remembered from the Garrison and what classes he’d been able to take with his own money. There’d been little at the orphanage—they relied mostly on volunteers outside of a few permanent staff—and getting his own job had been presented to him at an early age, after the failed foster homes and fallen-through adoptions. There was surprisingly little bitterness to the thought: he’d made it to the Garrison, and he’d met Shiro. That made it worth it.

He didn’t need his brain to think his way through the forms. They’d been hammered into him. They were slow, mired in leashed panic and numbness, but the more he moved, the faster he became. Faster, faster, and faster: thoughts fell away. What took form was an image of the Red Lion.

A metal dome surrounded it. People moved around it, and he viewed them from above, like a bird. It was warm. An alien tongue broadcasted through the dome. He tried to focus on it, but something sparked in his brain and his mind reared back from the image.

The room was still numbing. Sweat coated him, but the panic was gone. The Red Lion’s tendrils of warmth kept the chills at bay. He wondered how long it would last. Zarkon’s warning had been right. The connection he’d worked so hard to forge strained over distance. It felt like a harsh flu for now. What would it be like if the Galra hurt the Red Lion? Or when the days stretched to weeks and months?

“Fuck,” he said. He flopped against the glass. His limbs burned nicely, but he wished he had his bayard. There was nothing like the feeling of metal slicing through the air as momentum built, turning the strikes to lightning.

Sleep was an option. It always was. But all sleep did was wile away the hours until another Galra would turn up. It was unproductive. It let his training dull. He waited another five minutes and returned to forms. The day passed like that: momentary breaks before he went back to a punishing regime of practice.

The Red Lion didn’t appear again. He waited for it, but each time the world blurred, all he felt was warm air and the low growl over speakers. He couldn’t tell if it was a mirage induced by exhaustion or signs of his progression. All he knew was that—what had to be hours later, with pulled muscles and dizziness clouding his vision—he’d accomplished little. But he slept well. It was a cold comfort.

He woke to a low beep. He felt grimy and sore, but he looked up to see Zarkon. The bottom of his stomach dropped out. He knew he looked like a mess; even worse, he was in no state to play games with Zarkon. Sleep still coated his thoughts. His fuzzy tongue lay heavy in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d brushed his teeth. “Paladin,” Zarkon said with a solid nod at him. He was dressed in his usual armor; his cheek rested against his sharp fingers. “If you’ll forgive the disruption.”

“Wasn’t exactly busy,” Keith rasped out. His throat ached. He should have drank the liquid from the tray. He glanced beside his bed to see the tray was missing. His nose wrinkled at the smell that wafted free from his clothes. Shit, he thought.

Zarkon didn’t look away from Keith’s face. “I imagine not. But perhaps I can help. Some of my soldiers grow restless, and I feel you could provide an interesting opponent. Particularly if the footage I saw was an example of mere practice.”

Keith paused. “You’ve been watching me?”

Zarkon’s eyes glinted. “Possibly,” he said. “You’ll get time to prepare, of course. I doubt my soldiers would appreciate fighting someone in civilian attire. But you won’t get a true weapon.”

Then why would I go, he almost asked. But the truth was that he needed to get out of the room. Not to escape, or antagonize, or do reconnaissance, but just so that the walls would stop creeping inward and his mind would stop going in circles. “I won’t need one,” Keith said.

The slow smile that spread over Zarkon’s face was ominous. “That is pleasing to hear.” He waved a hand at someone off-screen. “One of the sentries will be down with proper supplies soon.” Keith thought about thanking him for a moment before his brain caught up. Don’t thank the fucking genocidal dictator, what the fuck, he thought. “If you’ll excuse the admission of further monitoring, I would advise continuing to consume the drink provided on your tray.”

Keith blinked. “Why?” he said. “The tap’s fine.”

“The drink contains several necessary nutrients,” Zarkon said, “and ensures that you’ll remain alive while in space. If you wish to remain healthy, I would advise consuming them. Though, of course, you could always protest captivity by refusing to eat. But that would force us down an avenue I would prefer not to explore.”

Keith imagined feeding tubes. He tried not to shudder. “Fine,” he said. He wanted to ask that they not taste horrible, but that admitted weakness. He could eat anything they gave him—no matter how gross.

“Then I leave you to your business,” Zarkon said, and the screen turned dark. Keith dragged himself to his feet. He stared at the screen for a moment before he gave up on it revealing anything: it was possibly the source of Zarkon’s spying, but attacking the machine would simply earn him a replacement. Besides, he doubted Zarkon was using it. The console was too obvious a culprit, and the cells were likely wired to hell and back.

The sentry came flanked by two other sentries. The centre one carried a tray; the one to the left held steered a sleek black cube. They watched him take the tray, and they watched him pick out toiletries and leathery armor from the cube. The right one stood by the door, armed with a gun. It was tempting to take his chances. But the reality of the situation was stark. He donned the armor after cleaning, and ate small bites of food. Not everything—there was too much growing worry to stomach it all—but enough that he thought it unlikely that Zarkon would feign more concern over him.

The sentries waited the entire time. Keith wished the door to the bathroom locked, particularly when he opened it to find a sentry pressed against the wall beside the opening. “I hate all of you,” he muttered. He followed their lead as they escorted him out of the cell.

The dark, smooth armor he wore felt like leather, though of what animal, he couldn’t say. It bent nicely with his movements, as though he’d worn it in another life. It unsettled him to think about. Instead, he focused on the weaknesses he could spot. The boots were too light when he compared them to his Paladin armor. It removed a lot of the momentum and strength he was used to. But he could compensate for that with more speed, which he’d need since he doubted the armor could shield him from anything other than a dagger. It was under-armour, he thought; there was supposed to be heavy metal armor overtop, something like what the Galra soldiers wore. He almost felt bad for them for a moment. It’d be hellish to work in something so heavy and clunky, particularly if things ever got warm.

He stretched his hands on the way to wherever the sentries planned on bringing him. Zarkon said it was for combat practice. Who knew if that was true? He didn’t put it past Zarkon to surprise him with something uglier. And even if it was true, he wondered what Zarkon’s soldiers’ training was like. They couldn’t all be like Sendak.

The halls were same as always. Only the sentries’ sudden stop let him know they’d arrived. One placed a hand on a panel and the doors hissed open. It was like his room, he thought—all metal and glass—but it was a multitude bigger. There were no cushions on the ground. Around the edges, Galra waited. Some looked bruised and battered. Yet others prowled the edge, judging with opaque gold eyes.

In the centre, Zarkon stood straight, like he was at attention. His eyes picked apart the combatants that lunged and tore at one another. A woman grabbed a man by his left arm and twisted; he struggled, trying to get a slash into her leg. He was weaker, Keith thought, and she seemed to realize that by the smirk on her face. Utter silence allowed the sudden crunch and crack to echo. The man didn’t cry out. All he gave was a low grunt. Approving looks were passed around, even as the woman tossed him away like a toy. His sword slid away. Metal scratched against metal. The sword stopped at Zarkon’s feet.

Zarkon looked at the woman. She seemed to grow three sizes under his gaze: her chest puffed out, and her ears flicked back. Keith almost expected her to purr. “Vizax, return to training,” said another Galra. “Hyladra… excellent work.” The new Galra—the commander—nodded to the sword. Hyladra picked it up. Keith watched as the losing Galra took off the sheath attached to his waist. He handed it to Hyladra with only a small bitter look. His left arm was limp.

She sheathed the sword like it was a prize. She gave a deep bow to Zarkon before she walked to the sidelines. It left Keith right in Zarkon’s view. The Galra didn’t smile, but Keith wondered if there was a hint of approval to the small smirk that crossed Zarkon’s face. “Paladin,” he said. Zarkon’s quiet voice echoed in the massive room. The acoustics seemed built to showcase grunts and groans.

Keith glanced to either side of him. Everyone stared at him. The loser, the commander, and most of all Hyladra—their eyes tried to pick him apart, and Keith wondered at the wisdom of putting him on such public display. Zarkon was sending a message, but Keith couldn’t quite puzzle it out. “Zarkon,” was all Keith offered in turn. There was no resulting murmur, but some Galra shared long looks. Keith stifled the urge to fidget.

“You look suitably prepared.” Zarkon looked around the room. His movements were slight, as though it wasn’t worth his effort to examine everyone. “Who wishes to challenge the Paladin first?”

“Your Majesty,” Hyladra said. “If it would so please you...?”

“If you feel yourself his match,” Zarkon said. “You may use your prize.”

Her prize was the long, sharp sword. His armor wouldn’t block that—not effectively, at least. But Keith refused to feel fear. He strode into the centre. He didn’t need a weapon, he thought; he hadn’t needed one since he was 12. After the fists of foster parents, and the jeers of other kids, he’d made sure nobody could beat him. Nobody, he thought bitterly, except the Galra. But he could change that.

Hyladra didn’t bother with pleasantries. She stepped on the dipped metal ring, drawing her sword as she went. Her thick fur bristled as her eyes brightened. Her mouth stretched into a ghoulish smile. He wondered how much of the smile was bloodlust and how much was ambition. Beating the Paladin would mean something, he knew.

He let his body fall into a loose stance. His virtue was his speed. He didn’t hit as strong as Hunk and he didn’t have Pidge’s inventiveness, but the Red Lion’s speed and determination fit him. When Hyladra bolted forward, he read her feint for what it was. He ducked under the swing of her sword. She was tall—tall enough for him to roll beneath her and slam his right foot out at her back. She twisted midfall to turn it into a tight spin. But her footing was poor. Was it exhaustion or poor training? Either way, she’d been too greedy. It earned her a sweeping kicked that knocked her down. Only her sword kept him at bay as she threw herself back to her feet.

He prowled around her. Part of him wanted to charge, but the sword’s wicked edge kept him at bay. He needed to loosen her grip on it. She snarled at him, mirroring his circling, refusing to let him have a shot at her back. He gave in first: he darted in, aiming a punch for her stomach. She slashed at his forearm with the sword.

When he ducked, she was ready. She tilted the sword down to clip him across the inside of his arm. He didn’t flinch: he kept going. The leather ripped as he threw the rest of his weight behind his lunge. His arm stung in the cold air, but he barrelled into her middle.

It startled her more than pushing her. He grabbed for her sword by the hilt. Her gauntlets were thick and her grip strong, but the leather gloves allowed him a maneuverability she didn’t have. He pried a single finger loose and twisted it, just she’d done to the other Galra’s arm.

It popped free from its socket. He kept going. He was too close for her do anything but slap his side with the sword and punch him in the side with the free hand. When the finger crunched, she let out only a low hiss. But when he looked up at her, her gold eyes watered. Something in him cringed back at what he was doing, but the rest pushed on. He delivered a sharp kick to her left knee—the knee holding most of her weight—and there was another crunch. She staggered back, but she still stood.

He didn’t care when her grip spasmed on the sword. He ripped it free and bolted back as one of her giant hands tried to grab him by the throat. She should have tried that earlier, he thought, but then that would have left her other hand open to attack for as long as he lasted without air. Which could be long, he knew.

He had the sword. It was nothing like his bayard. It was heavier, bulkier, and had a strange balance, but it was a sword and she wore armor. Without the sword, he could play games with her balance and attack joints. With it, he decided to make a go for her legs.

Hyladra spat something out in a tongue he didn’t understand but one he recognized. Images of the Red Lion flashed over his vision as she threw herself at him. His distraction earned him a solid whack to the head as he stared at her, eyes wide. He stumbled away, swearing, but angled the stumble to the slightly higher ground of the ring. It earned him a foot on her. Part of him was pathetically grateful she was only slightly taller than him. If she’d been Zarkon-sized, the slight height gain wouldn’t have mattered.

She unleashed a series of punches and kicks that he focused on dodging. She hobbled slightly with her injured knee, but that didn’t slow her fists. He used his sword once to parry a punch. She almost punched it out of his hand, and the metal clanged, making the bones inside his arm tingle unpleasantly.

When she drew back to take stock on her efforts, he followed her. He didn’t bother slashing at her body. He tilted the sword so that the flat of it faced the side of Hyladra’s head and swung. He put all his strength into it. Something crunched when it landed. He suspected it was her jaw.

She didn’t fall back. She didn’t make a sound. She looked at him with sun-gold eyes and lunged again. Her claws—and that’s what they were, fucking _claws_ —scratched at his face. He couldn’t help the yelp of surprise that burst out. One hand scorched down his left cheek. He threw himself down for the other. The roll down to the ring’s bottom was short but bumpy. When he rose, he ran to the centre, using the time to built of momentum. Hyladra followed him.

He twisted on his heel and took a swing at her legs. She reached down to grab the sword’s blade mid-swing. He almost cringed as he thought of how painful that must have been. Keith released the sword instantly. His kick to her face was almost blocked by her regained use of the sword. But she wasn’t fast enough, and he targeted her broken jaw.

She fell to the ground. Keith refused to get close to her, for fear it was a trick. His blood welled up from the slash on his arm, and a small stream of blood lead down his cheek. He pinched the skin around the arm wound. Before turning to face Zarkon, he circled Hyladra, just to make sure his back wouldn’t be to her when Zarkon spoke.

Zarkon looked pleased. The other Galra were silent. “Dismissed,” Zarkon said. “Commander, Hyladra is your responsibility.” Was that a hint to take care of her, or a warning that the commander’s protégé was poor? Keith shook his head. He didn’t want to know. All he cared about was the commander sending lackeys to scoop Hyladra off the floor. She was awake, Keith noticed, and giving him a vicious look. _Things aren’t over_ radiated from her. He sneered at her. Which didn’t help, he knew, but he wasn’t going to play the coward. If he did, it’d earn him more unwelcome attention.

When the room was empty, Zarkon stepped down into the ring. He walked around the spray of blood on the ring’s bottom, though he eyed the colour with interest. Was Galra blood a different colour? He’d only seen red on Hyladra, though how much of that had been his, he couldn’t tell. “You did well,” Zarkon said. “Though not well enough.”

Keith bristled. “I started using swords a few weeks ago,” he said. But that was an excuse, and Zarkon’s long look told Keith he knew that. “…I’m used to fists,” he admitted. “And guns. Is she… is she talented?”

“No,” Zarkon said. Keith tried not to deflate. “But she’s focused and strong. She doesn’t need talent.” He loomed over Keith for a moment before he crouched slightly. His long fingers hovered over the pinched wound. “You have it, though it hasn’t been nurtured enough. In time, combat and practice with the Paladins would bring you to your peak. But it would not last long. Your prime would pass and you would be left with only memories of greatness.”

Keith grit his teeth. “Fighters can last for decades—“

“But for how long at their prime?” Zarkon asked. Keith’s lips thinned. “You want to be strong. It’s in every fiber of your being. I admire that. It is a trait I wish for all my soldiers. But you will not become what you were meant to be by mindless practice and the occasional bloodbath.” Zarkon moved away from Keith. It felt colder without him.

Keith watched Zarkon stride toward the sword left on the ground. “She lost her prize,” Zarkon said. “But unfortunately for you, I will not allow you to walk around with such a weapon.” He gestured Keith closer. Zarkon stood beside a panel. “Open the door.”

Keith paused. But he walked over and pressed a hand against the panel. The wall whooshed open to reveal an armory of swords, guns, spears, and a hundred other weapons, some that were distinctly foreign to him. “…What do you want me to do?” Keith asked. “You didn’t just lecture me about strength for me to brood about it and do nothing.”

“I’ll have the sentries fetch you daily for this kind of training.” Keith blinked as he stared at Zarkon. “This will be separate from my offer about the traitor. Take this as a _personal_ interest in seeing how far your determination can take you.”

“That,” Keith said, “sounds like a trap.”

Zarkon placed the sword on a table. Keith watched as the blood melted off, collected to somewhere unseen. Its sheen was sharp and its blade’s edges keen. Zarkon hooked it up above, out of Keith’s reach. “Is it?” Zarkon asked. “You will have something to do while becoming more useful as a Paladin to your friends. What do I have to gain from training you?”

Keith couldn’t really think of anything. But—“Something,” he said, annoyance in his voice. “You don’t run a charity.” Zarkon’s smile turned from vaguely threatening to annoying. “You—you could turn me into a puppet. With Druidic magic. I’ve seen what you did to Shiro.” The name felt raw on his tongue.

“Then you know it can be done whether or not you agree,” Zarkon said. “But I am disinterested in such experiments. I want to see the calibre of those who replaced my former allies. If you later turn your sword against me, you’ll find that your training has meant little.”

Keith didn’t want to admit he had a point. So he didn’t. “Why did you come to Earth?” he asked instead.

Zarkon stepped out of the armory. Keith followed, and the door closed behind him. Zarkon seemed to think something over. “If you were to expand your world’s empire for years on end,” he said, “you would have found the Galra. Is it so shocking that we eventually found your people?”

They’d taken Shiro and Pidge’s family. Keith didn’t know anything about Galra invasion procedures, but he doubted the kidnapping was atypical. But the thought brought an idea. “I’ll train if you tell me where Shiro—the Black Paladin’s—companions are and release them.”

Zarkon’s smirk grew. “Yet the training is for your benefit only. I am merely curious.”

Asshole, Keith thought. He bit back anger. “Then what do I need to do?” Keith stopped; Zarkon mirrored the action. “…They’re important to someone I know.”

“The Green Paladin,” Zarkon said. Keith’s heart sunk. “We recaptured some of the prisoners you released. They revealed some intriguing things. I could, of course, reveal their location. It would take little effort. But you would need to earn it. After all, their location and release would be a great boon to the Paladins.”

“What do you want?” Keith asked. “It’s not like I have a lot to give.” The admission felt sharper than the sword that’d cut him.

Zarkon tilted his head to the side. “I’m afraid It’s quite simple,” Zarkon said. “Find the traitor, and I can give you the Red Lion and the Green Paladin’s family.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things about this chapter:
> 
> First, I’m playing a bit fast and loose with the history of Voltron. It makes thing a bit AU-ish, but I promise it’ll make sense in the end.
> 
> Second, I want to make it very, very, VERY clear that my political/social views are not Zarkon's views. Whatever you hear from him, that's the character speaking, not me.

He followed Zarkon. The halls were empty: no sentries patrolled, and no Galra dared linger. A small trail of blood dripped to the floor as he walked. The leather armor proved a poor bandage. He winced as blood slid down his sharp jawline and pooled on his chin. He twisted his head to rub his chin on the leather. The armor was already bloody anyway.

A minute passed in silence. Zarkon’s long strides forced Keith to a brisk walk. It made the droplets fall faster. “…I’m bleeding on your floor,” he said as they took another turn. “I’m sure you have robot maids or whatever, but I prefer my blood in me.”

“A preference we all share. But I wish to show you something.” Zarkon drew to a stop several feet ahead. “Hand on the panel, Paladin.” He didn’t loom—at least not purposely. His neutral face picked apart Keith at the seams.

Keith grit his teeth and released the pinched wound. It wasn’t a shallow wound. Not deep enough to immobilize him, but deep enough that it stung and the blood flowed. He slapped a hand against the panel. It beeped back at him. He left behind a smeared bloody handprint. The flaps of skin he pinched were slick in his fingers. But it didn’t matter when the door opened. A wash of power flowed over him. His skin prickled at the sensation.

Beyond the door was another cavernous room. It looked like the room he’d met the first Druid in—ringed by cylinders of quintessence, with a conveyor belt feeding the golden containers out. In the centre, a single tank stood. “Do you know what this is?” Zarkon asked.

Keith squinted at the containers. He squinted at Zarkon. “It’s that—that quintessence stuff. Most potent energy in the universe or whatever. It healed me when I got some on me. I’m assuming you brought me here for the same?” Keith walked towards a shelf of quintessence. The containers looked vacuum-sealed. There were no bubbles or rippling liquid. The transparent gold shimmered in the lights. The world tilted around him. “What do I do? Dip my arm in?” He imagined it like dipping his arm in space gasoline.

Zarkon walked to the centre tank. “You could be immersed,” he said. “The properties would be fascinating on your physiology.” Keith grunted. Zarkon laughed. “But we’ll confine ourselves to the smaller containers.” He turned to one of the close smaller ones. Keith expected Zarkon to fiddle with the top or punch in a code somewhere. But all he did was tap the glass. The lid fizzled out of existence, and Keith’s stomach twisted. Unnatural, his mind whispered. The gold liquid stayed placid as a sheltered lake.

Keith crept forward. The cold around him frayed. There was something mesmerizing around the liquid. He remembered the heat against his skin and the tickling sensation as it sunk into his flesh, knitting together cuts and soothing burns. Zarkon watched him. Keith didn’t remember the healing hurting, yet he hesitated before scooping up some of the quintessence. He let his wound fall open. His arm was soaked in blood. But when he drizzled the quintessence over it, that same ticklish sensation rose. He watched, spellbound, as the skin darkened and pulled together, pinched by some invisible force, then seal together. No scars carved over the new pale skin. “Your face as well,” Zarkon said. “Unless you’re a fan of collecting scars?”

Keith wasn’t. He had enough of them already. He used the same hand that’d scooped up the quintessence and rubbed the remains into his cheek. “What is this stuff, exactly?” The blood smears on his cheek begin to dry. It tickled and itched. “Coran said it was the most potent energy source in the universe. But where does it come from?” He paused. “Is it taken from Balmera crystals?”

Zarkon circled the main tank to the other side. His figure turned warped and cloudy and gold. “No,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s little I can share with you. As open as I’ve been, I must be mindful of the risks you pose.” Zarkon ran a finger down the tank’s centre. The fingerpad made no noise as it traced the tank’s contours. “Suffice to say, this is an advanced material that I suspect your Altean allies would know little about. They have been out of contact with the Empire for millennia, after all.”

“True,” Keith said. Coran had acted like he’d seen quintessence a handful of times in his life at best. And even then, it would never have been in these kinds of quantities. Keith watched a robotic arm clasp a container and lift it to a conveyor belt around the room. There were hundreds of containers and a dozen smaller doors scattered around the room. He peered through one door to see another room, similar to his. There had to be thousands of quintessence containers in this small network of rooms. How many other stations were there? The only comfort was that the quintessence didn’t come from Balmeras. “Is it common for Galra to use quintessence for healing?”

“It is a privilege saved for a few,” Zarkon said. “For all our advancements, quintessence remains a difficult material to acquire. But you see its effectiveness for healing—that makes it all the more desirable.”

“What else is it used for?” He peered at the open container. The cool liquid had a slight froth to it, something he blamed on him having scooped some out. He squinted at the container. “Do the Lions use it?”

“It would be an interesting design choice if they did,” Zarkon said instead of giving an answer. Keith rolled his eyes, not that Zarkon could see. “But wouldn’t Coran be more familiar with the material?”

Keith chewed it over. Cold air brushed against where his arm’s wound had been. “Not necessarily,” Keith said. “Not if the Lions needed to be fuelled rarely.” Were the Lions the green machines of quintessence users? Who knew, really. But the Lions needed to run on something, and that something needed to last for a long while. As combat machines, they needed to have almost constant up time. As living fossils to an older era, picked up after millennia of neglect, the fuel would need to have a long shelf-life. Gasoline would have soured in three years. Any other oil-derived substance would have, max, seven years. And nuclear options seemed a strange choice for the Alteans when they had Balmera crystals available. Some nuclear materials had long half-lifes—longer than the Lions had existed—but would the Alteans bother with it, and would the nuclear fission provide the power needed for all of the Lions’ strange abilities? And that didn’t take into account the delicate nature of reactors, or how much maintenance they needed. “You’d know what they’d need, though.” Keith turned to face Zarkon. The Galra no longer stood behind the tank; he waited for Keith a few feet away, his bright eyes focused on Keith.

“I do,” Zarkon said. “Tell me, Keith. What do you feel in this room?” He leaned in, his eyes unreadable.

Keith forced himself not to lean back. He wanted to scratch his skin, as though that’d remove the itch beneath it. Colours coiled behind his eyes, reminding him so keenly of the dream test. “It’s familiar,” he said. “It’s… it’s the energy from the Lions.”

“Then you hardly need the little guesswork you were doing, or my answers.” Zarkon stepped around him and tapped the opened container. The top shimmered closed. “Quintessence is life. It is the spiritual blood of the universe—rare, precious, strange, and dangerous. The Lions’ creators—long before my time, or King Alfor’s— thought to tame it and use it for their machines. As though it was simply coal or oil. But you know better. As does any Paladin.”

“That’s why they’re sentient. Coran and Allura said they were a technology so advanced to be almost magic.” Keith kept his arms from circling his waist. No insecurity allowed, he thought firmly. “I’d argue it if I hadn’t piloted the Red Lion. I had no idea stuff like this _existed_.”

“Your people were aware of a wider world,” Zarkon said. “While your imaginations hadn’t stretched to the limitless infinity, you were able to look into the blackness of space and dream of venturing into it. That is more than some races the Galra have met.”

“Doesn’t everyone… everyone _sentient_ have an idea of something beyond?” Keith eyed the container. The lid looked solid. It glinted in the light, the gold colour so close to Zarkon’s eyes. “To have—to have a concept of self, there has to be an other.”

Zarkon’s lips twitched. “Some races have no concept of self. There is the hive, or there is nothing. Some races look to the stars as the reflection of their gods’ eyes. One race—squat and pale and ugly—believed that for there to be an individual, society itself would need to be destroyed. From many, there is one, they told my general. They showed us the ritual bonfires they would use for their heathens.” Zarkon’s hands were clasped behind his back. “Your people have unity. But they have dreams and a sense of self. If you didn’t, you would never have rescued the Princess. She would simply have been a sickly limb to amputate.”

His stomach sunk. He’d suggested they leave her. “There are other arguments for leaving her,” he said. He almost bit his tongue. He didn’t need to justify himself to someone who didn’t even know what he’d suggested. “Never mind—“

“There were,” Zarkon said. “There certainly were. It would have been brighter if you’d left her, but I confess it has served me well that you came. Though I can hardly use the word ‘you’: take it as a general word, for it seems you were more cool-headed than the others.”

Keith forced the cold to stay, though its edges were nipped at by the quintessence that flowed through him. “Some would disagree.” Zarkon’s smile didn’t leave his face. “…I’m healed now. Do I go back to my cell?” No whining, he told himself. He kept his voice neutral and calm.

Zarkon seemed to think to himself. “Not yet,” he decided. “There’s someone for you to meet. Though you must promise me something, Keith.”

 _Stop calling me Keith_ was the first thing that rose in his throat. He bit it back. “This is going to be someone I dislike, isn’t it.” Was it Sendak?

“It will be. But take heart—she will be polite if you are, and I feel you’re a man who understands civility. Her name is Haggar.” Keith blinked. “She’s a Druid of some note. I believe that some of your fascination with quintessence, and of self, could be answered by her. Take her as an acquaintance: if you charm her, I’m sure she’ll talk to you again.”

He didn’t recognize the name. But if she was a Druid of note, she could have knowledge about what’d happened to Shiro. His arm had been an unsettling addition: Shiro avoided touching people with it, but that didn’t remove Keith’s discomfort. He’d seen its strength. He’d seen its glow. It was Galra in make, but that didn’t answer if it was magic, technology, or both, like the Lions. He almost pointed out that the information she could give was valuable. But he didn’t want to remind Zarkon of that. Not if he wanted to keep the meeting. “I’ll be, uh. Nice,” he said. It was a lie. It wasn’t that he tried deliberately to be an asshole. It was just that things came out badly, and sometimes he didn’t think before speaking. Zarkon had probably realized that by now, he realized sourly.

“I’m sure,” Zarkon said, voice dry. Keith hunched in on himself. Zarkon motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

Keith left to the hum of the conveyor belt and the clink of metal against glass. Zarkon walked beside him, his gait slow enough to compensate for their height difference. The Galra didn’t ask questions. He didn’t even try to talk to Keith, leaving him to his thoughts.

He didn’t want to be left to his own thoughts, though. Nerves made him jittery. The smell of quintessence—slightly burning, but bright as citrus—smothered his nose. He felt the glowing presence behind the walls. His skin itched, as though it was dry and too tight over his bones; he wondered, distantly, if more quintessence would solve the problem.

Zarkon held the door for him several times. It wasn’t like in the movies. The technology was too advanced for that. But he waited at the sliding doors, his hand keeping them from closing again, and Keith forced himself not to hurry through the doors like he was shy or charmed. He kept a frown painted on his face and a scowl going. Zarkon didn’t look unsettled or bothered. The man said nothing. They took the elevator in silence. Keith tried not to gawk as the elevator’s glass looked out into space. They were calculated displays, he knew. Why else would they spend the resources and risk the weakness? It was to remind the Galra of their own majesty.

He still remembered the burning Arusian village. He wasn’t about to forget it. Even the sheer spectacle of Zarkon’s throne room wasn’t enough for the memories of screams and cinders to die. “She’ll meet us here,” Zarkon said. “I would offer a seat, but I’m afraid we’re short on them.” Zarkon stood with him as Keith approached the throne-room’s windows. Outside, in the vast expanse between the ring and the centre, ships ferried back and forth. A fleet of small bug-like ships spilled from a cruiser. They fanned out, twisting around each other and moving in waves; they made him think of a hive, despite the Galras’ feline appearances. “It’s elegant, isn’t it?”

Keith glanced at Zarkon from the corner of his eye. “It’s a display,” Keith said. There was no way Zarkon would organize it for him to see, which meant it was the usual way for the Galra to do things. He wondered what technology and training they had to do such feats. Coordinating the spirals would be a nightmare. Yet they did it naturally and regularly. He thought about calling it wasteful. But it was beautiful, and he didn’t want to start a fight in Zarkon’s throne room of all places. Not when he could get information on Shiro’s arm.

The elevator opened shortly after. A Druid shuffled in, and he recognized her from his first visit to the room by the locks of white that hung from her hood. “Sire,” she said. He’d expected a crone. But her voice was youthful and smooth, and he wondered how old she was. How long did the Galra naturally live? “Paladin. It pleases me to be of service.”

She’d known he was waiting, then. He hadn’t even seen Zarkon contact her, let alone tell her of his presence. It would be simple to dismiss it as planning or a misunderstanding. But, as he looked between them, he wondered what other powers quintessence—or Druid magics—possessed. Telepathy would be the least surprising thing he’d run into today. Zarkon didn’t move when he spoke. “Our Paladin has recently discovered the powers of quintessence. While I wish for neither of us to furnish him with our secrets, I think it would be interesting to see a human’s perspective on such a topic.”

He caught a glimpse of Haggar’s lips curving into a smile, though her eyes remained hidden. “The lifeblood has always been a challenging topic for other races.” She came closer: her face was long and pointed, elegant and marked by tattoos or matte face paint. “Some fear it, Paladin, but I doubt you’re such a type. Not if you pilot the Red Lion without fear.”

He didn’t want to be flattered. But he didn’t want to cause a fight. So he shrugged, his mouth flat. “There are bigger things to fear.” But not you, he thought.

He didn’t need to say it. Zarkon laughed, the sound thick and heavy; Haggar’s smile grew as she spoke. “And what would you fear? You wouldn’t stand here if you wished to cower away from the Empire.” Haggar approached. Closer, her markings looked more like scars. “Or is your fear a sacrifice for the others? I’m sure you wish for information to help your companions.”

“I’m not afraid,” Keith said. “Not of you.” She was a Druid—a powerful one. But he had to accept that and move on. “But I do want information. Not just about quintessence.” He kept his arms to his sides, refusing to wrap them around his middle or fold them behind his back. “I want to know about what happened to the Black Paladin—Shiro.”

Haggar paused. “The Black Paladin stands beside you. The Champion is a pretender—a beneficiary of stolen titles and power.” Keith grit his teeth. “Do not take offense! I hardly blame the Champion. He had no idea. But the crime is millennia old, and the Champion’s changes new as a risen sun. What do you wish to know?”

“What is his arm? How did you do it?” He almost asked if it was repairable. But he doubted Haggar would share that, or if it was even a good idea. Shiro’s arm had saved them so many times. Without it, how fucked would they be? “Why did you give it to him?”

“You know his strength, Paladin. It was decided to enhance it—to see what the limits of your species are. No different than what your own people would do if they found a Galra.” Haggar pressed close. She was shorter than him, an unusual sight for a Galra. She looked up at him through golden eyes—eyes the colour of quintessence. “The Champion’s arm is a combination of energy manipulation and our technology. It is distinctly _Galra_ , but it is hardly his enemy.” She smiled. Her scars stretched with the expression. “If he’d been given time to adjust, things would have been quite different.”

Shiro’s escape had been frantic and desperate. Keith still wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, and Shiro didn’t seem to know either. Before he spoke, he thanked whatever powers that were that Shiro wasn’t captured. He couldn’t be, not if Zarkon was giving him information on Shiro. “Don’t pretend this was out of good will,” Keith said. He kept heat from his voice. “You called him the Champion and made him fight in arenas. That—“

“Made him stronger,” Zarkon finished. “Is he anything normal to your people now? The way he fights, the way he _moves_ , are Galra. Is it not what I’ve offered you? The ability to outshine the Champion. To—if ever freed—become something more than useful or competent. I would never argue selflessness for either my offer or what happened to the Champion. But simple curiosity has provided both of you with much.”

Curiosity. How much did it really fuel Zarkon? The man had lived thousands of years. He’d explored so much of the universe and commanded billions. Would he honestly be interested in a race that hadn’t left its own system? With thousands of races—if not _millions_ —why the curiosity from those so high in the Empire? Keith tried to imagine what Shiro had done in the arena. He’d known the man to be a skilled and brilliant fighter. He didn’t just hit hard and fast— he picked apart his enemies. It’s how Voltron had survived so long. Shiro’s performance would have been noteworthy. And now they wanted to remake their Champion with Keith.

Anger bubbled under his skin. It was molten, red, and ugly. They’d asked, he thought. Had they learned from Shiro’s example? But Keith had even less of a chance to escape. “You want me to be a tool.” Keith stepped away from Haggar. “You fucked up with Shiro. He got away and he’s become the biggest threat to your ambitions. And now—“

“You’d have to agree,” Zarkon said. Keith’s mouth snapped shut. “If I wished to force you to be the new Champion, I could. But instead, I present you with options. Choices. If you reject the offer, you will never hear of it again. If I wished for a soldier, I would craft them from a willing Galra.”

It was true. If Zarkon wanted to remake him, he’d do it without asking. Zarkon would do what he’d had done to Shiro. Instead, he’d given Keith a choice. “So this is just more curiosity. But you already saw what happened with Shiro. You’ve seen his strength.”

“His strength, yes,” Zarkon said. “Not yours. Not the man who took the Red Lion and fought with me as his companions begged for him to stop. Not the man who went through the dream, nor the man who talks to the Emperor with such acid to his words.” Zarkon leaned in. “I know the Black Paladins. But I wonder, Keith, what the Red Paladin would be like if trained.”

“The augments,” Keith said. “Those—I don’t want to hear about them.” There were too many ghosts in Shiro’s eyes for Keith to stomach hearing about them.

Zarkon nodded slowly. “They will not be offered. Those are dangerous tools for me to give you, besides. I brought you to Haggar to furnish your own curiosity with quintessence. Never to give you Galra weaponry.”

“Good,” Keith said. The anger still waited. It’d swallowed the cold, leaving rawness behind. He wanted to be in his cell. “I—“ He couldn’t apologize. There was nothing to apologize for. Haggar and Zarkon had committed unforgiveable crimes. Yet he couldn’t thank either of them, could he? “Why did you take them?” He wanted to snatch the words from the air and hide them away.

Haggar looked to Zarkon. “It’s standard procedure,” Zarkon said, “to take those during first contact. When we find a new species, we locate a small group of them. They are taken for evaluation on their species’… qualities. Material ones are important, but cultural ones more so. Several millennia ago, a foolish general took over a small system filled with a strange spider-like people. He didn’t realize what offended them, or how they reacted to offense. They expected to be given a host of Galra for reproductive purposes.” Zarkon made a helpless gesture. “As you can imagine, furnishing them with such was an impossibility. They reacted by sending fleets to our nearest base. It was a lesson learned.” Zarkon laughed. “You look appropriately horrified.”

“ _Reproductive purposes_ ,” he hissed. “That’s—“ He shook his head. He didn’t want to know. What he wanted to know was something different. “You made Shiro fight in an arena and did experiments on him. The Green Paladin’s family is in a labour colony. That’s not investigation.”

“It’s not.” Zarkon leaned in slightly; Keith stood his ground. “The scientists would have been impossible to reintegrate, and they showed little willingness to help the Empire. The Champion—the Champion was my weakness. It is not the worst thing that I’ve done.”

Keith blinked. It was the starkest confession of _anything_ that he’d got from Zarkon. But it was true. Keith remembered the Balmera and its people who did not even remember the concept of freedom. That had been Zarkon’s work. It’d happened over centuries, if not millennia. “You’ve done worse things,” Keith agreed. “And so much of it comes back to freedom. How many others are like the Balmerans?” How many more were like Shiro?

“The Balmerans gave,” Zarkon said, “so that thousands of other species could live. Ten thousand years in ten thousand systems, all filled with war, famine, and sickness. If I could have taken the crystals slower, would I not have? But other systems needed the fuel, and I cannot argue with a virus or winter.”

Keith shook his head. He felt Haggar watching them, even as she turned to look at the glass. He wondered what their reflections looked like. “They didn’t even remember freedom. They knew _nothing_ outside of a dying Balmera and the Galra Empire.” But it was weak. If Zarkon told the truth, it was either people’s lives, or a rock that cooed. The Balmera had been grand and majestic and probably belonged on a moving wildlife documentary, but humanity had flooded enough plains and chopped down enough forests that Keith tasted the hypocrisy. How many people had been displaced and killed on Earth for resources?

It wasn’t right. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. Keith was supposed to spit righteous anger and Zarkon was supposed to snarl back, evil and dastardly and _warped_. But Zarkon looked at him with calm and shamelessness. Keith ached for the others. Pidge would have an argument against Zarkon. Lance would sneer as Hunk’s empathy fuelled them. And Shiro—he didn’t want to think of Shiro facing this.

“And in return, their sacrifice paid for thousands of lives. You saved them, of course. The heroic Paladins of Voltron sailed in from the void and fought the Galra as Princess Allura revived the dying beast. And now, the lights on other planets will go dark and what waits in the shadows will prowl free. Until I find a new way to provide for them, of course.” Zarkon came closer. His warmth sunk into Keith’s skin. “But I believe you’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” Keith said. Zarkon gave him a knowing look. He didn’t want to go back to the cell. Yet he knew that he wasn’t in a good space to argue with Zarkon. Exhaustion made his mind sluggish. Keith wondered if the cold he felt was the good kind, or if the heat had final crawled out the other end. He knew burns, when bad enough, numbed and cooled the skin through damage. Maybe it’d finally done it after so many years.

“You will be when you’ve rested.” Zarkon placed an armored hand on Keith’s shoulder. It weighed him down, grounding him. “Do you wish for me to walk you back to your rooms?”

“No,” Keith said. But he already ached for someone to talk to. “I guess that leaves the sentries?”

Zarkon smiled. “It does. But I’ll be around in the next few days— I wish for an answer to both my offers, and I feel Hyladra may demand a rematch soon enough.”


	6. Chapter 6

Why was he a Paladin? It wasn’t a question he dwelled on much. He could answer why he’d gone after Shiro, why he’d tracked the energies, why he’d piloted the Red Lion. But he couldn’t explain why the Lion chose him, or why he’d felt the energy in the first place. He’d got the impression both had something to do with being chosen—anointed, he thought, like some saint or messiah. Would the quintessence fuelling the Lions have picked them out from so far? Or had it been opportunistic? Maybe the Blue Lion had sensed him in the desert and chosen him as a conduit. Then the rest had been necessity.

He lay prone on the ground. Sweat dampened his clothes. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if anyone watched from the cameras. He doubted it. Who wanted to watch him wince and groan for hours on end? Nobody with better things to do.

He focused on breathing. His lungs twitched under the assault of lukewarm air. They expected something warm, something burning, but in their denial they spasmed painfully. “Fuck,” Keith hissed. The words hurt too. It was the Red Lion, he knew; the connection frayed under the distance, more than it had forever ago. He thought about going through forms. His stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Not yet, then.

Which left him to his thoughts about the whys. He could have kicked out the others when he spoke about the energies. He could have assumed the signs leading to Shiro’s arrival were fake. He could have done a thousand things that didn’t bring him to this point. But he’d done it anyway. Why? He’d wanted to be near Shiro. He wanted to be the moon to his sun—to reflect back Shiro’s best qualities. Maybe then he’d have been worth Shiro’s attention. He still remembered the bitter, sour whispers of other people when they saw Shiro talking to him. “You have an attitude problem,” an instructor told him; “I’m not sure why Takashi’s encouraging you, but it needs to stop.”

Keith’s response had been a shrug. The instructor had assigned him clean-up duty for the disrespect. But it hadn’t stopped Keith from talking to Shiro, though Keith never told him about the instructor’s complaints or the other cadets’ whispers. Shiro never asked. Keith wondered if he’d assumed everything was fine. “You’ve got talent,” Shiro would always say. “Lots of instinct. You can’t buy that, and you can’t train someone to have it. All you need is a bit of advice and discipline.”

Shiro had found him when he was 17, right after Keith had got into the Garrison—his application had been odd, the interviewer told him. It wasn’t like they got many orphans. But there’d been a generous tone to the man’s voice, as though Keith’s case qualified as charity. “There’ll be ways to catch you up on everything,” the man said as the interview ended, as though Keith didn’t know how to fight or do advanced math.

 _I come from an orphanage_ , he wanted to say— _not from a hole in the ground_. He’d gone to school. He may not have parents, but he was no idiot. But he said nothing. So long as he got in, what did it matter what people thought? He didn’t need applause as he walked through the door. He needed a room, classes, and access to a simulator. He could do the rest.

And he did the rest. He did it to the point where, when Shiro saw him in the simulators alone, Shiro said something. “The back right thruster would have made the descent around the rock easier,” he said. Keith had looked up from the pod, his eyebrow raised. Shiro’s smile could have been a summer sun. “Try it.”

He did. And that was the start of… whatever they had. Friendship, he supposed. When Shiro visited his apartment, it felt like more. He’d just turned eighteen when he bought it. It’d been listed hesitantly, the agent told him, because it was worth so little. Keith didn’t care. He bought it that day and spent the next month fixing it. “That was supposed to be your leave,” Shiro told him when he found out.

“I wasn’t on Garrison property,” Keith said. Shiro had sighed. But when Keith gave an invitation to visit, Shiro turned up on his next leave. The apartment’s small dimensions contained a futon and a couch. No multiple rooms, only a kitchenette, and no halls. Just a small room squeezed into a building with thousands. The only thing smaller than it was his stipend that funded the place. Shiro didn’t complain. He never did. He took the bigger couch and spent the night there. When his leaves got bigger, he spent more time. Even invited Keith to his own home—a small white house in a grassy suburb. The neighbours gave him odd looks. Sometimes Keith worried about causing Shiro trouble. There were regulations they could break, he said once over pizza.

Shiro had shrugged. “We’re friends,” Shiro said. “There’s no regulation against that.”

Keith had frowned and nodded. He soothed the hurt of _friends_ by working on his bike. It’d been bought with prize money from a piloting competition. He spent more time keeping its paint-lines crisp than he did talking to people at the Garrison.

The last time he saw Shiro, the man clapped him on the shoulder and leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted over Keith’s cheek. “You’ll be graduated when I’m back,” he said. His eyes were warm. “I’ve got a gift for then. Just keep working, Keith, and I can get us assigned together.”

Now that, he mused, had been unprofessional. It’d been one of the few cracks in Shiro’s professional armor. Keith savoured it. He knew what he wanted. But asking when there was so much against it… he didn’t want to burn that bridge. So he kept it to himself. He kept it so quiet that nobody looked at him when Shiro vanished. They looked to Shiro’s family and to his colleagues, but never to the almost-graduated cadet who had been in Shiro’s shadow.

They hadn’t seen him drown. With Shiro gone, there was no sun to reflect. His temper worsened. His concentration vanished. He obsessed over the reports. _Pilot error_ haunted him. A few people whispered that Shiro hadn’t been as talented as assumed. His control withered as the gossip flew. Shiro had been everything. He didn’t make simple mistakes. He didn’t kill people through carelessness. When an instructor used the incident as an example in a lecture, he stopped going to class. He didn’t want to hear it. It couldn’t have happened.

He tried to dig into the reports, but too many systems locked it down. Maybe, he thought, if he’d been smarter, he would have known something. But instead, he drifted. When he felt the energies in the desert, it came to him as water to a dying man. He used what remained of his money to buy a shack and used his bike to do odd delivery jobs. Only the energy kept him going. Even when he read the signs heralding an arrival, he didn’t realize what would come down from the sky. With the sun gone, he trusted in the symbols carved into the rocks.

It was pathetic to look back on. For all the symbols and energy had given him, a reasonable person would never have trusted them. But desperation fuelled him. He’d gone after the pod. He’d tracked what must have been quintessence—the lifeblood of the universe— for almost a year. Maybe that was his special talent—the one that fuelled his instincts and made him acceptable to the Lions. An ability to sense and taste quintessence.

So why was he a Paladin? Because of his strange ability and his desire to become the person Shiro thought he was. Shiro believed he could become a sun of his own. Keith doubted it, but who was he to disagree? Especially when so many lives were at stake.

None of this solved his problem. Pidge’s family had been offered to him, right beside a glass of poison. He had to agree to something terrible to do something good. He didn’t know what Shiro would do. Part of him thought to fake the hunt to buy time, but Zarkon would have thought of that. What would his preventative measures be in that case? Keith couldn’t think of anything other than Druid magic. But then there was no point in asking Keith to work for Zarkon, and it brought him back into the endless infinite twisting loop of thinking.

In the shack, things had been quiet. It’d been him, computers, and his corkboard. There’d been no one watching. There’d been the energy and the wind and his bike. He spent his free time wandering through cave tunnels or maintaining the generators in his shed. He used boiled water from what liquid spurted out of his water pipes. When he thought about it too much, he’d leave to visit town. It was voluntary solitude.

The metal walls and blackened windows here were far from it. He lay alone, surrounded by enemies, far from the peace of wind and sand. He dreamed of the Castle. Laughter bounced through its halls as his limbs ached from another long practice. Meanwhile, the silence in his cell rang like thunder in his ears. It’d come to this, he thought: a choice that wasn’t a choice, and the knowledge that if he didn’t take it, he doomed Pidge’s family to potential death.

It’s okay. It was going to be fine. His stomach twisted in the middle; pain lanced through his body. He needed the Red Lion. But moving meant using his stone-heavy legs. Did he really need the forms, though? It’d been a messy conduit. Maybe, he thought, if he concentrated like in the exercises at the Castle, he could reach out. Even with what had to be many systems between them… he knew the Lion’s quintessence.

What made him calm? The shack, for one. Shiro. When the simulators turned hard and the systems were blaring alarms at him, calm forced itself over his panic. He longed for the days when the ice remained uncracked. “Think about the shack,” he whispered to himself. His heartbeat fluttered under the strain of heat and nausea. He tried to soothe it with the weight of his memories: of the shining bike, of the creaking shack at night, of the coyotes howling and the low computer hum. He’d sensed the Lion there. He’d played a messenger to the others. He’d stood there with Shiro after a year of almost-mourning.  Shiro’s appearance had changed, but when Keith looked into the man’s eyes, he knew things could be okay again.

It’d been like that with the Red Lion. When he’d shouted at it, pushing at the barrier, he’d wondered if he’d failed again. Failed like he’d done at the Garrison—washed out the moment Shiro was gone. But he’d fought anyway, and the Lion had come for him. He’d searched the caves in Utah for months and puzzled the meanings for weeks on end, and Shiro had come back.

If he worked, he could sense the Lion. So he did: he thought of the smooth metal, the sharp reds, the glittering displays and the wavering gravity as it darted between enemies and rocks. When he’d dove into the asteroid belt, all he’d seen was the ship stealing away the Blue Lion. The rocks were stepping stones—never obstacles. Instinct guided him. He knew the path before he even thought of it.

He knew, deep down, where the Red Lion was. Still in the dome, bound and studied and trapped. He wondered if the Lions understood the concept of boredom. Would millennia with the Galra have acclimated the Red Lion to the feeling? Did it feel natural to be around the Galra? He pooled together his anxiety and sickness. He wrapped it in the shards of his calm and tied the bundle in strands of frustration. He sent it out, down through the channel where he usually joined with the Red Lion. _I miss you_ , he thought.

He waited. Minutes passed with no response. His hands gripped his clothes. He wanted to apologize—thought about it before discarding the idea. If the Red Lion refused to talk to him, that didn’t count as his fault. He’d tried and he cared but if the Red Lion blamed him for what had happened, he didn’t care. There’d been a chance to stop the Galra Empire in its tracks. He hadn’t known better. It should have told him—

A low purr echoed in his skull. It wasn’t calming or gentle. It was like roaring waves or a hive in his head. He tried to breathe. Anger seeped into his veins. There were no words to it: all that came was a rush of emotions, barely defined, but strong as a winter’s wind.  Any frantic apologies were swept out of the way. The emotions were hungry: they snapped at his thoughts, leaving gashes. All he could think of was pain. The keenness made him arch up. The movement dragged him away from the connection; the Red Lion chased after, as desperate as him. Keith tasted the words. _Don’t leave me_.

It’d been alone for so long. No Paladin, no other Lions, and only the quizzical prodding of the Galra. Images crashed over him of the time before Keith. There had been others—Zarkon had tried to charm the Lion with other Galra, all of them potential Paladins. He caught a glimpse of gold eyes surrounded by crow’s feet. And then the Red Lion was gone.

He sucked in a sharp breath. In the wake of pain, clarity filled his mind. The nausea vanished. The heat dissipated like he’d walked into a cold stream. He tried to gather the remaining emotions scattered throughout his brain. But they were incoherent: fear, pain, pleasure, anger, and joy. What were they doing to the Lion? What had they already done?

The thoughts were shelved when the door to his room slid open. Keith looked up from the floor to see a Galra frowning down at him. “Is this how humans carry themselves?” the Galra asked. Keith focused on steadying his breathing. “Rolling around on the floor?”

“At least,” Keith said, “I’m dressed.” He wanted to stand up. His limbs weren’t heavy or aching anymore: the Red Lion’s contact had burned that away. He squinted at the Galra. They seemed… familiar. He’d seen them before and they had been notable. But now wasn’t the time. “What do you want?”

The Galra’s lips thinned. “The Emperor sent me to retrieve you. He wishes to discuss some matters of importance.” He stepped into the room and his nose wrinkled. “They will have to wait for you to be in a fitting state.”

So he already wanted an answer on the training and the traitor. “I hope you brought clothes,” Keith said. His raspy voice sounded so strange to his ears. He coughed, but no phlegm came up. Instead it was rawness—like he’d been screaming for hours. He looked up at the Galra. Behind him, sentries waited. A single cube hovered beside them.

“You have ten minutes,” the Galra said. “Sentries.” They steered the cube into the room, leaving it by the door. “I expect you to be ready soon, Paladin.” Keith’s shrug made him frown, but he left.

He tried to clean off the memories from his body. Harsh soap scoured his skin, stripping it of sweat and grime and any moisture it’d managed to accumulate in the dryness of the station. He wiped himself down with rough towels that he hung up to dry. The bathroom’s heat wafted out. Its warmth made him relax. There were few good things about captivity, but at least they didn’t make him shower with cold water. The heat made dressing easier, even when he strapped on armor.

He didn’t doubt that—when the door opened again—it had been ten minutes on the dot. The Galra didn’t speak: they motioned to the hall, and Keith went first. Keith tried to ignore the implications of the armor. Did Zarkon already know his answer? Or was it a general thing, to make him blend in a bit more despite his pale skin and dark eyes? Whatever it was, Keith refused to contemplate it for long. “What’s your name?” Keith decided to ask.

“…Thace,” the Galra said. Keith eyed him in the metal walls’ reflections. “I believe we’ve met in passing.” Had they? Keith tried to think. It had to be in the throne room or the training room. Thace’s armor looked too fancy for training, but then what was he doing playing the fetch quest?

Whatever, Keith decided. “Cool. I guess.” Thace was the second Galra that he’d spoken to for more than thirty seconds. Thace looked less welcoming than Haggar and much more impatient than Zarkon. Keith frowned to himself. He dug through foggy memories, searching for Thace’s face.

“If you’ll excuse the curiosity,” Thace said, “I have a question.” Keith looked at him and shrugged. When Thace frowned, Keith motioned for him to go ahead. “We found an odd item in the Red Lion. A dagger of odd make. As you must understand, I cannot return it to you, but I wonder where it came from.”

Keith forced himself not to look away. He didn’t want to give the details—those were too easily used against him—but an edited version would suffice. “A gift from my parents,” he said. “They left it with me when they had to leave me.” He ached to have it back. Its weight had always been a comfort, and the mindless task of keeping it sharp dulled any frenetic feelings.

Thace’s frown deepened. “Is that a usual gift for humans?” Keith almost laughed. The staff had almost disposed of the dagger. Only a single volunteer had saved it. When he turned 16, the volunteer gave it back to him.

“No,” Keith said. “It took years for my caretakers to give it back.” Thace nodded slowly. “You have it, then?” Keith swallowed a plea to have it back. Thace himself had said he couldn’t give it.

“I do. I shall care for it until you are once again allowed it.” Thace opened an elevator door. The sentries entered it with them. “If ever. But that is not my place to decide.” Thace stood at attention as the doors closed and elevator began to move.

Keith recognized him now. From the throne room—the strange lingering look. It must have been his curiosity about the dagger. It made sense for a Galra to be interested in a weapon, particularly a weapon of an odd design. Though to be fair, anything human would be foreign to the Galra. It wasn’t like Shiro or the Holts would have given much about human weapon aesthetics. Keith had never been able to trace the design either—it’d been a strange mix of a non-Roman alphabet, designs of creatures he didn’t recognize, and strangely flowing and curving lines. For all he knew, his parents had bought it on a trip somewhere before they had to leave him.

When he’d been young, he’d pretended sometimes that his parents were world-weary travellers. Other times, his parents were youthful artists or students who had travelled to some faraway country. When one parent died, the remaining one had realized they couldn’t raise him alone and had left the dagger behind as it had been the deceased parent’s favourite possession. It was dumb, he knew.  But it’d been dumber to leave a week old baby on a stranger’s doorstep. The family had found him when they opened the door to go to a movie. He’d been wrapped in cotton blankets and quiet as the night. Maybe his parents had expected the family to take him in. But they’d been too nervous about who might have been watching them and they had two children besides, the staff had told him years ago. So he’d ended up at an orphanage.

“Have you made a choice yet?” Thace asked. Keith jerked back to the present. Thace watched him in the glass walls’ reflection. “The Emperor has been quite patient.” Thace paused. “Surprisingly so.” Thace eyed Keith. It made Keith’s skin crawl a bit.

Keith didn’t know how much time had passed. It could be anything from a few days to weeks. “How long as it been?” he asked. He frowned. “It’s been, uh… a few days, right?”

Thace’s eyebrows rose. “It’s been a week,” Thace said. “I’m aware that your state was poor, but surely you tracked the arrival of food?”

He’d tried. He’d tried again and again and again but he’d sometimes wake to no food and sometimes there was a brand new tray that he thought replaced an untouched one. “More focused on not passing out,” Keith said. His jaw seemed determined to clench on him. “But thanks for the answer.” Keith stared out the glass, into the station’s innards and into the glimpse of void that peeked through. Thace remained silent for a time.

“Is it an illness?” Thace asked. “Or something more to do with the Red Lion?”

Keith looked at Thace, his face expressionless. On the surface, the Galra not knowing about it made little sense. Until he remembered that Zarkon was the Black Paladin—former Black Paladin—and had probably struggled with the bond himself. Could someone weaponize it against Zarkon even still? Who knew. But Keith doubted he wanted to take that risk. The discovery left Keith wondering about whether he should spill. On one hand, it left Keith vulnerable and empowered a Galra against the Paladins. On the other, it would pull a Galra closer to him, disguising his intentions for Zarkon’s offer, and it opened up the possibility of destabilizing the Empire. It depended on if they knew Zarkon was the former Black Paladin. It also depended on how loyal Thace was—and who he spoke to in private. He’d been in the throne room and presented as a possible traitor. It meant that, if it wasn’t him, he probably knew all the other possible traitors.

Good enough, Keith decided. “The Red Lion,” Keith said. “Distance isn’t great for Paladins.” Keith let silence stretch out as Thace’s brow furrowed. “I’m surprised Zarkon hasn’t told you that weakness.” Too heavy, he thought. “So I’m going to Zarkon?”

“No,” Thace said. “He wants to see how you’ve fared in the past week. Then he will be interested in your decision.”

Keith had done a few forms in the week. Some exercises. A bit of running from wall to wall. Nothing good enough to keep him in shape. He thought back to his fight with Hyladra. He’d won with a few wounds, but what would happen if he faced her again? Or someone better? His hands fisted. At least he had armor. Maybe this time he might even get a weapon.

He didn’t realize they were heading to the same training room until the door opened. And maybe it wasn’t the same—maybe it was another identical one, one of dozens stationed around Central Command. He didn’t recognize anyone other than Hyladra. She stood tall and proud, her ears flicked back and her teeth bared at another Galra. But they weren’t combat-ready: they stood to the side, along with several others. “Join them,” Thace told him. He nodded to the group. “You’ve already proven yourself to one.”

Keith… really didn’t want to join them. He’d never liked groups. Even friendly ones were awkward. But it’d been less an offer and more a command, and he was desperate to stop thinking about mind games. He wonder if she’d resent him for the fight. The entire group of Galra turned to look at him as he got close. A few glanced at Hyladra from the corner of their eyes.

Hyladra herself leaned against the wall, her arms folded and a sharp tooth peeking out of her mouth. It glistened wetly in the lights and looked sharp enough to break skin. “Human,” she said, looking down her nose at him. “A whole week?” Keith blinked and raised his own eyebrow. “Surely I didn’t take that much out of you.”

He bit back a sharp retort involving quintessence. He didn’t want them to know how close to Zarkon he was: as much as that might foment unhappiness, he didn’t doubt that a lot of that unhappiness would be directed at _him_. “You that eager for me to beat you?”

Low hisses spread through the group. One Galra looked ready to intervene if Hyladra lunged. But her mouth split open into an ugly grin. “You have fire, Paladin. I can appreciate that.” She pushed off the wall. Her eyes gleamed with a sickly yellow sheen. “But if you think I won’t cut your tongue out of your mouth—“

“You’d have to catch me first,” Keith said. A smirk of his own spread over his face. “You weren’t so great at that last time.” Someone tittered. But Hyladra didn’t look angry. She looked—of all things—pleased. She leaned in, emphasizing her height.

“Should we have another try?” Hyladra’s grin grew. “Perhaps you’ll get a weapon this time.”

“No thanks,” Keith said. “Wouldn’t want to make it unfair.”

Hyladra laughed. The sound came out hoarse and raspy, similar to his own. “In the centre with you,” she said. “We’ll see who learned anything from the last fight.”

Keith almost hesitated before turning from the group. The training room’s centre contained fewer Galra this time, and those that were there looked young. A scattered few Galra wore armor that designated them as higher ranked, but they were mostly around the edges, their eyes dissecting the movements of anyone who wandered out to fight. When Keith entered the ring, everyone’s eyes were pinned on him. Even Thace’s, Keith noticed, who hovered by the entrance. Keith turned to look at Hyladra. She followed his path, stretching her arms over her head. She brought no weapon. Whispers echoed in the room, though they were an indecipherable mass of sound.

“I’m surprised you’re being so… welcoming,” Keith said when she was close enough to touch. The spectators’ own sounds kept them from hearing the words.

Hyladra shrugged. “You’re something special,” she told him. “The Emperor pays attention to you, and the Red Lion follows your call. I’d be a fool to dismiss you. And I’d be a bigger fool to hold a grudge over a simple match. But one must wonder, if perhaps not aloud to others, what you are.”

Keith paused. “I’m human,” he said, “and a Paladin.” But she was shaking her head. She didn’t argue, but she reached out to touch a stray lock of black hair.

“Human means nothing to me.” Keith blinked. “You look strange. Odd, with your furless skin and black hair and dark eyes. For other species, those would be signs of weakness. But I remember your blows and speed, Paladin. That is more than ‘human’—more than some silly title for millennia past.” She pulled back and let her fingers’ pads slip over the lock. “I hope that when we next meet, you have a better answer.” She grinned at him. “Take form, Paladin. I will not hold back.”

He was distracted during the fight. He saw in the Galras’ looks their dissection of his appearance. He was small to them, and bare as a newborn. His hair looked too long and too dark, and his eyes lacked the Galra-gold so prevalent in their race. When Hyladra swung for his head, he noticed that her fingers targeted his hair as a grip. When she jabbed for his face, she chased his eyes. His bare skin showed so well the bruises and cuts he gained. Even when he beat her—through a back-kick to the head and a twist of her left arm-- her eyes lingered on his cut and bruises. “You need claws,” she told him. She held her right hand up to her eyes. She examined the red, as though it was part of his foreignness. “Ask one of the commanders for a dagger. Others will want to fight, and I’m far from the best at hand-to-hand.”

Thace followed him as Keith went to the commanders. He ignored Thace as he spoke to them: whatever Thace wanted, he could ask for it instead of being weird. Keith didn’t bother with pleasantries. He doubted Galra cared much for them. “I need a dagger,” he told the tallest Galra commander. He didn’t quite know how to read ranks, but he figured the more colourful the uniform, the higher the rank. And the tallest Galra’s uniform could have doubled as a spotlight.

“We do not arm enemies,” the Galra told him. “What fools do you take us for?”

Keith bit back a sigh, though his expression morphed to something unimpressed. “I’m good at fighting, but I can’t take out a room of Galra. You’ll know what I have too. Unless you think you’re scatterbrained enough to leave me with a single dagger?”

It got him a functional bland dagger. No ornamentation, no wrapping on the pommel, and a straight blade. Good enough, even with the strange lingering touch the commander gave to his shorter fingers. Keith pulled back and tried to ignore the eyes on his back as he walked away. He may have been an alien to them, but he wasn’t going to let them gawk like he was a zoo animal.

A different Galra entered the ring with him this time. Shorter and bulkier, her face reminded him of Hunk’s broadness with none of Hunk’s charm. She was slow—but when her fist crashed against Keith’s chest, Keith went flying back. The bruises, he thought, were going to be fantastic. He doubted he’d get more quintessence. “You’re fast,” the Galra said. “But that seems to be your only talent.”

Keith grit his teeth. When the Galra thundered in his direction, he aimed for the shoulder. Claws swiped at his face but he snapped his head back as the dagger stabbed into the armor. He threw his body to the side as a spray of green splashed free. The green flecked on to his skin, warm and burning. Keith went into a roll before rising just behind the Galra. He threw a fist at the back of her head, all his speed behind it.

The Galra caught it. Her grip was weak, but somehow—in the chaos of the cut, in Keith’s movement, in the cheers and sneers around the ring’s edge—the Galra had had the presence of mind to find him. So Keith punished her by twisting in the Galra’s grip and using her own strength to kick her in the head.

He ripped through one Galra after another. A few were problems. One Galra did gymnastics that wouldn’t look out of place in the Olympics. Another powered through the small wounds Keith racked up on the Galra; only a vicious smash to the head got them to their knees. By the fourth Galra, Keith was panting. By the sixth, he wobbled on his landings. By the tenth, his own blood lay atop the smeared green on the ground. But he didn’t lose. He _refused_ to lose. When he got knocked down and felt his ribs creak, he got back up and went for the Galra’s abdomen. When another clawed his face, he used the opportunity to grab the hand and almost break it. Only the armor saved the Galra from a broken wrist.

Galra prowled around the ring’s edge. Keith tried to steady his breathing as he flexed his hand. Stiffness had taken hold of it from grasping the dagger so tightly and for so long. He braced himself as Thace walked down from the entrance. The sentries didn’t follow. But Thace didn’t take a stance or pull out a weapon. He offered a hand to Keith, and Keith couldn’t tell if it was a test. They stared at each other in silence before Thace sighed. “If I wished to fight you,” he said, “I’d have given no warning. Give me the dagger, Paladin, and take some rest.”

Keith parted with the dagger with only some hesitation. He glanced at Hyladra and the wounded Galra from the corner of his eye. He pitched his voice low. “Was that… good?” Thace blinked. “I mean—the fighting. Did I do good?”

Thace’s expression turned bemused. “You’re a skilled fighter for your presumed age. 19?”

“Almost 20,” he said, which sounded more defensive than it should have been. He shook his head. “I don’t know how old everyone is here.”

Thace stepped to the side and motioned for Keith to head for one of the smaller doors. “They are… young. Far from children, largely out of adolescence, but they are not commanders and many will never be.” Thace walked beside him, his gaze picking Keith apart. Keith tried not to cringe away as he limped. “Their ages would not fit your race’s ideas of adulthood, however.”

Keith squinted at him. “What do you mean? What’s Galra adolescence?” They were a feline people, so—“Does it happen much younger?”

“It does,” Thace said. “Hyladra is nineteen—out of adolescence and ready to rise through the ranks. As fast as our growth happens, however, our adult lives are much longer. The Champion described your lifecycle to us. You begin to slow in your 40s, do you not? For us, such slowness does not appear until the midnight of our lives."

“I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.” Keith’s ankle stung when he walked on it. When they reached the door, he took a moment to lean against the wall. Thace let him have the moment. “You guys have green blood too. Copper-based?”

“Iron,” Thace said. He stood beside Keith and looked out at the machines cleaning the ring. “From our studies, what makes our blood green is flushed from your system. A sad fact, as the pigment has many benefits.” Thace’s eyes gleamed. “I saw you examining the blood as though it were something mystical. You’ll find the difference quite scientific.”

“Tell that to the others,” Keith said. Almost every Galra he’d fought had been mesmerized by the difference. If Keith hadn’t been exposed to so many strange things already, he might have been the same. He increasingly suspected that the Galra training on the station were very much sheltered—the Galra equivalent of the Galaxy Garrison. He almost felt bad for beating them up, but the claws kept those thoughts at bay.

“They’ll learn,” Thace said. “Just as you are. You’re discovering how we fight and how we function. It will be interesting to see if the others learn about humans in turn.”

Keith scratched his cheek. Flecks of a scab packed under his nails, but at least the itch was gone. “There’s something—there’s something weird about how you Galra pay attention. Like you’re always ready for something to come from anywhere. It can’t be trained because every single one of you has it. I can dodge around you faster than your brain can catch up but when I throw a kick…” He still remembered the sluggish Galra blocking his back-kick. It shouldn’t have been possible.

Thace looked pleased. “We are predators from an unkind planet. If we didn’t have a constant awareness of what was around us, we would be dead. If you learn nothing else from this exercise, learn to emulate this vigilance.” Thace pulled away. In his hands, he held the dagger coated in green blood. “Wash up,” he said. “Then we’ll deal with your wounds.”

He limped into the room whose door opened at his approach. Steam hung heavy as it coiled around his body. The tension in his body melted under the onslaught. It made stripping out of the armor easier. He left the battered and scored leather in a small shelf built into the slick white walls. He touched the white out of curiosity to find it felt like marble. It was an odd indulgence for the Galra.

The shower heads were inserted into the ceiling. A lone button bulged out from the opposite wall, far below the shower heads; he pressed it, and the water began to spit out of thee shower heads. The misting turned to a drizzle and then to a solid downpour. The hot water made his wounds sting. But he didn’t focus on that—he used the soap that had been in the cubby where his clothes were. Grassy sweetness mixed with the heavy steam. He let his mind dull under the motions of cleaning.

But the dullness didn’t stop his brain from chewing over his fights. He hadn’t been bad. But he hadn’t been his best either—he’d gone rusty with so little practice, and he had more wounds than he should because of that. The Galra were predators, Thace had said. It showed. Their awareness of their surroundings was too keen, as though they were constantly waiting for prey. It made Keith’s speed less of an advantage than normal. When he darted around them, they didn’t lose him like most humans did. While none of those he’d fought today had been anywhere near Sendak’s level, he saw how some would get there. Constant practice and racial advantages meant a lot.

Humans, he knew, had some awareness. He’d had it as a child. He’d tracked people by sound and had always known when he was being watched. The first time he’d been adopted, it’d caused problems. They hadn’t wanted a child so quiet or aware. “It’s unsettling,” the almost-mother had said to her husband when she thought Keith couldn’t hear. “I feel like he’s constantly watching and judging me.” The almost-father had waved her off. But Keith had tried to hide how he stiffened when people touched him or how he didn’t like to play ball. The sound of the plastic cracking against the ground made him cringe. When the object came close, his response was never to catch it but slap it away. Everything, he reflected, had seemed like danger. The people who hugged him were foreign and threatening. Their touches were too heavy and _wrong_ , like they were meant to be something else.

It’d taken a year for the family to give up on connecting with him. They’d tried therapy. They’d tried a dozen parenting methods. “He just doesn’t want to be loved,” the almost-mother cried to her own mother on the phone. She hadn’t known Keith could hear from so far away.

Nobody talked about it, but sometimes—when things didn’t work out—people returned their adopted children. They’d brought him back like an unruly adopted cat. The almost-mother hadn’t hugged him goodbye. She’d looked at him with what he now recognized as betrayal and left him to the staff and her husband to deal with. “I’m sorry,” the almost-father said. But it was awkward and stilted, like he’d given up sooner than the almost-mother.

The entire affair—his life from ages 3 to 4—had probably paid for his therapist’s house. It hadn’t been the end of adoption for him, of course. Other people had tried. But the same problems came up again and again. Sometimes it was aggression issues, which the family inevitably blamed on the family that came before. Other times, he didn’t bond sufficiently well with the family. He always realized that last out of everyone. He’d think everything was fine, that the family loved him and he was safe and maybe things were going to be great, and then someone would start crying and he’d realize he hadn’t hugged or kissed them since being adopted.

One time, a family blamed the orphanage workers. He hadn’t been adopted as a baby, so they must have harmed him. Why else hadn’t he been adopted as a lovely infant, an almost-grandmother said to another almost-mother. But Keith didn’t remember anything bad happening to him. When he’d asked the oldest worker why he hadn’t been adopted as a baby, the worker had been uncomfortable. “There were some medical issues,” the worker said. _You’re better now_ went unsaid, but Keith sometimes questioned if that was true.

Something clinked behind him. The small sound almost made him pause, but he refused to show any signs of alarm. He massaged soap into his lank hair. Blood matted it, and he didn’t want to see what Galra blood did to human hair. He watched blood circle the drain, some flaky and others wet and both an ugly mix of green and red. A presence loomed behind him. He didn’t need reflections to trace the movements: their arm was rising, and they leaned forward on a meaty leg. When their hand darted to his middle, he fell to a crouch.

The Galra reared back, his eyes wide. He didn’t recognize the Galra, though Keith did recognize the dagger in his hand—it looked like the one he’d been given. Keith shot forward and slammed his naked body into the Galra. An upward punch clipped the Galra’s chin. A crack echoed through the room.

The dagger glinted in the corner of his eye. Keith shot back as the Galra tried to stab him in the side. He waited until the swing passed before latching on to the Galra’s arm; the Galra himself took the opportunity to bite Keith’s shoulder. Keith swallowed a snarl as he wrenched at the Galra’s arm. The Galra’s tight reverse grip hindered both Keith and the Galra: the grip angled the knife away from Keith, but allowed the Galra to hold on to the knife.

So Keith hooked his leg around the leg the Galra leaned on the heaviest and pulled. The Galra didn’t even cry out as he fell. Instead, he tried to use the new position to swing out at Keith when Keith released his arm. But Keith slipped free from the tangle and pulled back.

The Galra wasn’t fast enough to turn the fall into a roll. The armor slapped against the ground. A loud grunt issued from the Galra’s clenched mouth. Keith thought, for a moment, about running out of the bathroom. But he was naked, and he didn’t need to guess as to how the Galra judged running. So he jumped on to the Galra’s arm and prayed the Galra wouldn’t get grabby at the more private parts.

Keith smeared soap suds on to the Galra’s hand. The Galra tried to grab his hair, but it was still slicked with water and soap; Keith yanked at the knife. Soap slithered into the cracks of the Galra’s grip. He wiggled it as a pair of claws slashed deep into his back. He turned the pain into a visceral snarl and yank. The knife came free.

He didn’t think as he lashed out. There were images that’d stay with him—green-stained teeth, or dull gold eyes, or even glimpses of twitching bare muscles. Sometimes red blood muddied the pictures. Stinging pain accompanied adrenaline and panic. The Galra tried to gut him. Keith slashed him across the palm, too fast for the Galra to retreat. And where would he go if he was even fast enough? Keith pinned the Galra down with his body. Wet arm leather pressed against him, soapy and slick. It made it hard to penetrate but he used the same grip as the Galra had and punctured the armor.

He should stop. There were questions to ask, and he hadn’t killed like this before, had never dreamed of doing something like this. But the Galra—even as he gurgled and gasped—kept clawing at him, kept trying to wrench the dagger free. The world spun around them both. Keith didn’t know how many times he’d stabbed the Galra. But he watched, a thousand miles away, as he let the knife take a final plunge into the Galra’s neck.

As the blood spurted free and the world turned a haze of black and green, he wondered if anyone would come before he bled out. The Galra went limp around him; Keith fell to the side, off the corpse, and the dagger fell from his hands. It clattered against the floor. Water rained down, and he struggled to breathe.

He wanted to think of Shiro as his last thought. Maybe then his failures would mean something. But the world went black, and the last thing he saw before was Zarkon at the bathroom’s doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com! Thank you all for reading. <3


	7. Chapter 7

He didn’t wake. Instead, he dreamed. Images projected on to the backs of his eyelids; the colours were washed out and static, like an old movie found in rubble. One image hovered over his cabin: it looked at the scene as Keith walked towards a lonely Shiro. It wasn’t from his memories. He’d looked at Shiro through soft eyes as he touched Shiro’s shoulder. This movie looked from afar, from a stranger’s eyes. The scene faded to black and pinpricks of light bloomed like flowers over it. Stars, he thought. Worlds above a world, and he looked through the eyes of something different yet so familiar. Voices spoke nearby. Their low growls and spitting _gek_ s grated. They wormed through the water in his ears. When it cleared, they spoke a husky English. “It’s got a pilot now,” one of them said. They were wrapped in a heavy grey-purple cloak. The area’s bright lights were absorbed by the strange matte material. He looked down at them from a hundred feet away, yet he heard them like they were beside his ear. “The Emperor’s holding them, isn’t he?”

The other Galra hissed. “Shouldn’t speak ‘bout that around it.” Gold eyes peered up at him. “Don’t know what it knows.” Their voices dimmed as they argued. _You don’t believe those stories, do you?_ But now the sun was out, and the Galra were gone. He looked down from above to see Zarkon standing in front, surrounded by guards and armored officers. Nervous Galra were behind the armored front.

They did not wear the thick armor of Central Command. They wore stiff cloth uniforms, the colours sandy and red, similar to the rocks and grit that stretched as far as the eye could see. His vision wobbled for a moment as he moved, far from his control; he didn’t get far. Something strapped him in place. When Zarkon approached, something hissed inside him. Red flashed over his vision. A shield took form. When Zarkon touched it, he knew that it had to burn.

“It’s been ten thousand years,” Zarkon said, voice cold and empty as space. “You’ve seen worthy Galra. You do a disservice to yourself to refuse.” He turned and motioned to the officers. “One at a time. If it is stubborn, leave it here for a time.”

The suns pass over him as the day stretched on. Glimpses of Galra come and go: a few are brave enough to touch the shield. Most hesitate feet away as they command him for attention. One—young, familiar, with a name so close to the tip of his tongue that he almost catches it—knocks on the shield. The simple motion earns a rumble; cadets behind the Galra cringe back, but this one doesn’t. “I come to you,” the reedy-voiced Galra said, “as your future Paladin.” The Galra looks up at him, gold-eyed as the others, with pointed ears and a strong jaw. But the Galra has shown nothing but arrogance, and so he ignores them. He ignores every one of them after that, and they leave him to the desert’s warbling song and the strange red aurora that appears in the skies. He tries not to listen.

But the strains of the song pull him away from the scene, into something darker. The damp cave’s clamminess is so different from the dry heat of the desert. There are no Galra to watch. There is no shield or low rumble. There is only the song’s high-pitched wail. He walks through the winding tunnels and sees carvings engraved into the wall. There are cities of dusty purple rock. Their bottoms are ringed in blood-red. High above, a long teardrop hangs over the scene. Strange looping markings surround it. He traces it with his fingers, which are purple and furred. When he leaves the markings, the images turn to canyons and black rivers. The song grows. When his lantern’s light sputters out, all he can hear is the song and the sounds of his own breathing.

He blinks, and he’s free. He’s in the sim room at the Garrison. The simulation has ended: the screen is replaying what he’s done, and he stares it down, picking at the mistakes he’s made. He’s ducking between rocks when the route becomes blocked. He needs to descend, but it’s hard and he clips floating debris. A voice invades his little pod. “The back right thruster would have made the descent around the rock easier,” Takashi Shirogane says, and Keith refuses to panic—refuses to flinch as the man leans into the open pod’s door. A smile spreads over the man’s face. “Sorry! I’m Shiro. I don’t think we’ve met?”

What does that even mean, he wonders. Everyone knows Shirogane. You didn’t go to this Garrison and _not_ know. “Uh, yeah.” That isn’t the impression he wants to make. He wants to take the words back. But Shiro’s smile doesn’t dim. “I didn’t know you were around. I’m Keith?” That isn’t a question. But it comes out like one. He thinks about apologizing.

Instead, Shirogane offers him a hand. Keith takes it gingerly, and offers a small smile back. “I wasn’t sure about the back right thruster,” he says despite himself. Shirogane’s smile is too luminous to refuse. “The left seemed a bit damaged so I thought it might throw off my control.”

Shirogane leans in. His shoulder brushes against Keith’s and the warmth that suffuses into him makes Keith shiver. Shirogane taps one of the display keys. It takes a few windows before he seems satisfied; on the display, he pins a graph. “It’s not precise,” he says. “It’s an output gauge for the thrusters—when there’s damage, things get shaky, but it’s nice to have it on display for a quick look.”

Keith leans forward to squint at it. “They’d say that’s the kind of stuff for engineers to judge,” he says, though he doesn’t believe it. He glances at Shirogane who looks unperturbed.

“They being the instructors?” Shirogane’s smile turned a bit mischievous. “Or just Lieutenant Miller?”

Keith’s lips twitch in response. “You had him here when you were in training?”

“I did,” Shirogane says. “Talked to him a few days ago, and I’m not surprised he hasn’t changed his teaching. He’s big on keeping specializations tight.”

Keith nods and makes a sound resembling agreement. It’s slightly tortured—he’s not sure what Shirogane’s doing, and the words come out without thinking. “What are you doing here?” Shirogane blinks. Keith feels his back arch a bit in horrified realization. “Uh… I mean, you graduated a few years ago.” He wants take the words back.

But Shirogane doesn’t look bothered. “Mandated grounding,” he says. “I figured I’d spend some time as a tutor. It’s a short gig, but I think I’m going to enjoy it.” He peers over the console. On the screen, Keith’s actions loop in an infinite display of incompetence. Three minutes ago, he would have called it competent. But as Shirogane watches, Keith’s opinion of his performance shrinks. He sees now the unstable flight patterns and the wobbling grip, and he wonders what Shirogane sees. “You’re talented.”

Keith’s heart stops. “I am?” Of course he is. He’s told himself that before. He thinks highly of his skills. But the stories about Shirogane—of impossible landings and skirmishes that make the rounds daily—brings in that doubt from his childhood. He doesn’t need validation, he thinks. But he still looks at Shirogane’s smile like it’s the stars.

“You are,” Shirogane says, his smile still bright. He’s 21 to Keith’s 18, and Keith knows it’s the worst crush he is ever going to have. “I’m here most evenings. If you want, we can go through some sims together.”

Keith’s breathy _yes_ is embarrassing. Shirogane— _Shiro_ —is being friendly. The pilot is seeing talent and like any tutor, and wants to nurture it. But Keith feels a bit dizzy as Shiro leaves. He almost doesn’t see a scowling Lance who hovers around another sim-pod. Keith wonders if Lance will call him out in the next class, but the thought departs in favour of Shiro’s glitzy smile. Keith decides to drown himself in work that night, just to forget the sharp pain in his heart that Shiro’s smile brings.

It's as he’s sitting over his laptop that he hears the voice. Its lullaby-waver coils around him like a snake. It haunts him as tries to focus; it follows him to bed, into his dreams, and he sees flickers of red among a sea of black.

He opened his eyes to a room of gun-metal grey. Clear liquid weighed him down as he bobbed inside a tank, only a face mask letting him breathe. His eyes didn’t sting. He saw—in the small square room—a pair of druids. Haggar’s eyes were hidden, but she smiled. The instinct to panic vanished under the weight of sedation. The other druid turned to her. Keith didn’t know if they spoke, but the other druid nodded before they approached the tank. A willowy hand tapped the console built into the tank’s bottom.

The liquid began to drain. It wasn’t quintessence: it had neither the gold nor the energy. But it had to be healing. He remembered the sensation of claws scratching down his back and into his stomach. The areas burned with the memory. His muscles twitched. But nothing ached, and he found he could stand, even without the liquid’s stabilizing weight.

He wasn’t naked. A sopping wet pair of shorts and tank covered him. Whoever had dressed him, he hoped karma rewarded them. He lifted a hand and pulled the mask free. He looked down at the druid, but they didn’t look up as they clicked several more keys. The tank’s back hissed as it opened. His legs were stiff beneath him but they carried him out of the tank and down the stairs.

Nobody met him at the back. He took a moment to brush his hair out of his eyes and then another to slap some feeling into his legs. His hands shook as he did it. Thoughts were creeping in. Memories of green and red and the hot feeling of a beating chest slowing beneath him. He dug his nails into his palms as he walked from the back and into full view of the druids.

Haggar looked him over. “Not a mark,” she said. “You’ve learned, Volux.” The druid beside her bowed at their waist. “Paladin. I didn’t expect to meet you again like this. But if it had to be with you at death’s door, I am pleased it was over the body of a traitor.”

A traitor, he thought. Not the traitor. He picked through the questions that rushed to the forefront of his mind. “Could have done it without being naked,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”

“Volux will show you.” Haggar’s head cocked to the side. “You’re afraid. What a strange thing.”

Keith grit his teeth. “I killed someone,” he said. He felt naked despite the underclothes.

“We do what’s necessary,” she said. “You’d be dead if you hadn’t fought back.”

Keith shook his head. His wet hair flopped unpleasantly. “It was too close,” he admitted. He didn’t want to say that to Haggar. But Zarkon would judge him for it, and he didn’t know where Thace was. He looked at his nails. They were clean, though he felt they should be stained green.

Haggar walked close. She didn’t touch him. But she let herself draw inwards as she leaned towards him. A slight rumble underlay her words. “Death waits for no god.” The other druid stiffened. “Nobody would have come in time to save you, Paladin. Only the traitor’s screams aroused suspicion.” Haggar offered a spindly hand, palm up. “Every death becomes part of you. You’ve painted yourself in the traitor’s blood, and now his strength is part of yours. This may frighten you for now, but know that—in the deserts of this vast universe—all the light in you is needed to survive.” Her hand waited.

There were imprints on his palm from his nails. He wondered, as he lightly touched Haggar’s palm, if she felt the edges. When his hand lifted, hers retreated into her sleeves. She lifted her head fully, revealing her gold eyes; her usually neutral expression had given way to a warmer calm. “Volux will see to you. The Emperor wishes to talk.” She drifted from the room, leaving Keith to watch the remaining druid.

Volux didn’t speak. They watched him. Keith kept his arms to his side, but he couldn’t help but grit his teeth. He wasn’t armored or properly dressed: he felt like he was on display to be picked apart. “You gonna show me where my clothes are?”

“You do not recognize me,” Volux said, and that voice was familiar enough to make Keith startle. “Ah, now you do.” Keith stared Volux down. It was the druid from the test and the strange visit. Their eerie voice echoed. “Do I not even get thanks?”

“…Thanks for putting me in a bacta tank?” Keith looked over his shoulder. The tank was closed up and refilled with the strange heavy liquid. “I’m pretty sure if it hadn’t been you, it’d have been someone else.” Had Volux seen him naked? He hoped not. “Who brought me here?” He remembered Zarkon at the bathroom’s entrance, but doubted the Galra would have carried him here.

“The Emperor,” Volux said. Keith gaped and Volux laughed. “Frightened, or charmed? Be neither. Zarkon is the Emperor and cares nothing for humans. But having you die under his watch would be an insult to his power.” Volux stepped towards him. The mask’s edges were gone, revealing a pointed chin covered in short lilac fur. Sharp teeth glinted in a ragged grin. “I admit I didn’t expect us to meet again so soon, but perhaps it’s for the best.” Volux reached up to toss their hood back. Wide, pointed cat ears jutted from a long head, and strange red markings had been dyed into Volux’s skin. Their gold eyes were smug.

Keith refused to give Volux the satisfaction. He took a quick glimpse of Volux’s face before he shrugged and began to walk away. Volux’s hiss was feral. “You don’t get to just walk away,” they snarled. Keith’s _I need clothes_ seemed to roll off the Galra. “I’m—I’m a _priest_. I showed you my face!”

“That’s nice,” Keith said. He assumed it had a religious significance, but Keith was wet and almost naked. There were no tables immediately visible with clothes—most held opaque containers, or strange implements. He looked past them to the closed door sealed that room. It’d opened for Haggar, he figured, so there was no reason to think it wouldn’t open for him. So he strode towards it as Volux followed behind.

Their eerie voice took on a whine. “You’re disrespectful,” Volux sniffed. “I find it incredible that the Emperor would value your life—or that you killed a Yexin officer!”

Keith stopped in front of the door and spun on his heel. His eyebrows were furrowed. “Yexin?”

Volux’s mouth snapped shut. They crossed their arms over their chest. “…Nothing.” Keith snorted. “It’s none of your business, Paladin. Let me do my duty so I can be free from your presence.” Volux stalked to the door and waved a hand near it. The doors opened, revealing an even bigger room. Lights bounced off the white walls; there were no windows, but scenes were projected on to the walls, showing pictures of greenery and the desert. Keith watched, mouth agape, as a two-legged barrel-chested creature covered in fur bounced by. Volux sneered when Keith looked at him. “You have nothing like this in your backwaters, do you?”

Keith choked down a sigh. “You’re insufferable. Chill out for ten minutes, man.” Volux blanched. It was the only good expression he’d ever seen on Volux. “I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate your, uh, face.” He needed allies, he knew, and if that meant indulging Volux’s ego, what did it matter? The Galra already seemed insecure about Keith’s strange… something with Zarkon. “I don’t know a lot about the Galra. But the mask is important, right? So it’s cool that you showed me your face.”

Volux started off looking outraged, but it dulled to annoyance and sputtered to thinned lips and a slight pout. “Priests are supposed to be covered,” they said. “It’s—it’s part of being a priest. But we’re allowed to show ourselves to certain people.” They reached over to prod Keith in the shoulder. The sharp nails were blunted slightly by Keith’s tank. “The High Priestess approves of you.” Volux’s hand retreated a few inches before they switched it to palm-up, like Haggar’s had. That same rumble appeared again. “…You’re still human, though.”

Keith thought about just walking away. Volux was rude, strange, and volatile. But allies were allies, and all it’d take was a light touch. He pressed his palm against Volux’s; he jumped a bit when Volux clasped it and began to walk hand in hand with Keith. A purring sensation crawled up his arm. It was like holding a vibrating phone. Volux ignored him in favour of dragging Keith to a nearby square closet. “You’ll need armor,” Volux decided. “I don’t want to have to heal you again. Human anatomy is strange.” They gave Keith a doubtful look over. “While I’m fairly certain I pieced you together properly for your species, if you experience any problems, tell a sentry.”

“Reassuring,” Keith said. What had happened while he was unconscious? He remembered being clawed and losing blood, but had the ‘Vexin officer’ done something more? Claws pressed into the fleshy part of his hand. Nothing hard, but enough to drag him back to reality.

“I tease,” Volux said. “You enjoy worrying too much.” Volux leaned in, exuding warmth; Keith froze as Volux brushed their cheek against Keith’s. Silky-soft, warm, and tingly from a low purr, it was more startling than comforting. But as Volux pulled back, part of Keith wanted to follow. It was the stupid part of him, he thought. He tried to distract himself with the cold he felt.

Volux opened the closet with their free hand. Inside, armor waited, along with a new set of underclothes. All were Galra in style—geometric, colourful in reds, purples, and golds, and cottony. “They’re fitted for you,” Volux said. “The medics weren’t sure when you’d awaken, though I told them it’d be soon.” Volux leaned in again, this time to squint. “Your quintessence was acting strangely. Do you remember your dreams?”

“No,” Keith lied. He remembered a song, the Galra pressing against _his_ the Red Lion’s shield, and the image of a symbol above a Galra city. In the caves, he thought, something strange had rested. But for once in his life, he carried no curiosity. Of all the things he wanted to see, whatever sang that horrible song was the last.

Volux’s pout came back. “You’ll tell me if you remember, won’t you?” Volux looked him in the eyes. Keith only knew this from how close Volux was to him--- so close that Keith almost drew back. Volux blinked lazily, as though oblivious to the invasion of Keith’s personal space. They had to know, Keith thought; they just didn’t care.

“Sure,” Keith offered. It didn’t seem to satisfy Volux. But they drew away and let go of Keith’s hand. Keith tried not to feel a bit adrift at the loss of warmth and that low purr. The loss sharpened his senses to the cold and the images around him. Keith pulled the clothes from the closet. Volux watched him arrange the clothes and armor on a table. Just to distract them, Keith let himself ask what he’d been thinking. “What does Yexin mean?”

Keith felt Volux’s eyes move away. “That’s… complex. And none of your business. If you want to know so bad, ask the Emperor. He’ll decide if you ‘re worthy of knowing more about the Galra.” Insufferable, he thought. Volux was insufferable. But they didn’t look back as Keith stripped out of his wet clothes and tugged on dry and warm clothes. When Keith turned around, Volux’s gaze was glued to a loping wolfish creature in a tundra. “As much as the Head Priestess likes you, remember that you’re an outsider.”

Keith sighed. He strapped on the armor piece by piece; Volux watched, their gold eyes keen, as though they’d never seen it before. Maybe they hadn’t—he didn’t know the relationship the druids had to their officers and soldiers. “He’ll receive a traitor’s funeral, you know.”

Which was information that qualified as intimate, Keith thought. Volux was fucking weird. “And what does that entail?” He snapped his right gauntlet’s clasp closed. He focused on the sounds his armor made as he put it on. The bright reds were similar to fresh flecks of blood. But there was no green, and that was all that mattered.

“His corpse will be spaced in an empty galaxy,” Volux said, “and then we’ll curse his name and erase it from the Empire. It is what he deserves.” Volux perked up. “I haven’t done it before. Name-blightings are unusual. But very rarely do people strike at the Emperor in such a—“ Volux’s mouth clicked closed. Keith paused in sealing his boots. He raised an eyebrow at Volux who began to frown. “None of your business.”

“Very little is,” Keith said. So people had struck at Zarkon before. It smelled of rebellion between the original traitor, _this_ traitor, and Volux’s comments. “Where’s the sentry to take me to Zarkon?”

“The Emperor,” Volux corrected. “It’d be best to use his title, Paladin.” Volux frowned at Keith’s flat expression. “No arguments. You already test my patience.” Volux slipped their mask back on. Their voice didn’t echo or dim. Magic, he wondered, or simply technology? The mask looked like porcelain, but appearances were deceiving. Volux waved a hand to the bigger door that—presumably—led to the corridors. It opened at Keith’s approach. A pair of sentries waited outside; they barely acknowledged him before they began to walk away. Keith glanced back one last time at Volux, who lay over a table. Volux didn’t even look at him.

Keith stood tall as he walked. The armor helped. They walked by a few Galra—two in armor, one in scrubs—and though they stared, it wasn’t for long. Through halls and in elevators, they migrated to another part of the station. Keith would be hard-pressed to guess where. Was it to the left? The right? The sensations of the elevator moving from direction to direction blurred together. When the sentries stopped at a door, it was no more notable than any of the others. When it opened, it revealed a spacious meeting room with glass windows looking into the vastness of space. Zarkon sat at the head of the table, as though he was an office manager and not an emperor.

Keith stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. Zarkon motioned to a seat beside him, but Keith ignored it in favour of sitting on the opposite end. Keith grit his teeth at Zarkon’s breathy laugh. “You are, as ever, the finest guest I’ve ever had.”

He wasn’t a guest, he wanted to say. He was a prisoner. But there were no shackles hanging from his wrists, no scars from being tortured, nor pain in his stomach from starvation. They were low standards, but Keith existed on low standards. “What do you want me to say?”

Zarkon raised an eyebrow. “Nothing,” Zarkon said. “I brought you here out of concern. You did almost die, after all.” _Your protections were lax_ didn’t need to be said. Zarkon’s fingers templed on the table. “Though if you wish to talk about certain matters, I will hardly send you to your cell.”

“You couldn’t protect the Holts if they were brought here,” Keith said. Zarkon’s placid expression didn’t change. “For all your violence, you fucking _suck_ at controlling your own people.”

Zarkon smiled. “Says the man who left his back unguarded in enemy territory.” Keith stiffened; Zarkon laughed. “But your anger is a shield. You still fear me, as you should.” Zarkon leaned in, his eyes a sour shade of yellow. “But you’re more afraid of yourself. Do you wish to talk about that?”

Keith tasted iron. Was it a memory? Or had he done something to himself? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t,” Keith said. His voice had been hoarse an hour ago. Or had it been days? Weeks? His voice now was smooth and carried an inhuman calm. He wanted to dig his nails into his palms. He wanted to feel Volux’s touch. But it was cold in the meeting room, and Zarkon’s eyes were sharp as knives.

“You’re breaking.” Zarkon didn’t stand or come close. He leaned back, watching through those sharp eyes. “You’ve killed before, Paladin. Hundreds of ships, all torn to pieces in your Lion’s line of fire. Does distance protect your mind so much?”

“I—“ What did he say? He remembered celebrating battles with the others. They’d won, hadn’t they? They’d saved the Balmerans. They’d saved the Arusians. The Galra ships were enemies in a video game: each taken down was another point, another little obstacle cleared before the next stage. He’d told himself they’d been populated by robots while on the Balmera. But he’d walked Central Command’s halls. He’d seen the Galra. Hyladra, Volux, Thace: all their lives revolved around the station, and he’d attacked it with the others. The Red Lion’s cannon had carved swirling designs into the station. How many had died?

Was he really surprised that someone had tried to kill after that?

“You say little,” Zarkon commented, “but I can see your thoughts. I could give numbers, of course. Names, ranks, and families as well. Some piloted the ships you attacked, but most of the lives you took were in the station. They were the least prepared for the attack.” This time he stood. He didn’t walk to Keith, but instead strolled along the windows. “The Lions are easy tools for destruction. When you’re in the cockpit… what are mere mortals to such power? I could be enraged at your arrogance. But that would deny that I felt it too when I was with the Black Lion. Our difference, Keith, was that I would never flinch at blood. I know how much I have spilled from afar.”

He’d lost control of the conversation somewhere between walking in and sitting down. “What are you doing to the Red Lion?” he asked instead.

Zarkon didn’t have the grace to look surprised. “Nothing,” Zarkon said. “It’s simply being contained for the time being. But I don’t expect you to believe me. Now that that distraction has failed, what will you ask next?”

Getting angry let Zarkon win. Keith inhaled sharply. He focused on the blank wall opposite. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Zarkon stare out the window. “Fine.” Keith tried to relax, but his muscles were stiff and his joints locked in place. “Who was he? A free agent?” Keith paused. “A test?”

“Do you think he is?”

“No,” Keith said. “It wasn’t your style.” It really wasn’t. It wasn’t in-depth enough. Zarkon would view the murder as necessary and expect Keith to too. He’d engineer something more shocking—more morally disgusting, or more revealing, all in safer parameters. All the assassin revealed was that Keith wanted to live enough to kill someone face-to-face. “So he was a free agent, then.”

“He was,” Zarkon said. “I could furnish you with more details, but that would mean trusting you with information that may harm my future projects.” Zarkon left the window to lean against a nearby chair. “Of course, this places you at risk for future attacks, but you will just have to use bathrooms with locked doors—“

“You want me to agree to help,” Keith said, “to protect myself. Nice.” Zarkon’s eyes glinted with mischief and maybe a hint of pleased malice. But he hadn’t been presented with a choice, for all of Zarkon’s sly joking. He could live in ignorance, waiting for more knives in the back, or he could do something. “You’re an asshole. But I was going to agree to your terms anyway.”

Zarkon’s smile came as unsettling. Keith tried not to feel like he’d lost a battle. It was the best decision, he knew.  But doubt crept through him like poison. “The officer who tried to kill you was—unfortunately—quite trusted. To understand his actions, we must go to the root of the Empire. I trust you with this information, Keith, so that you may protect yourself. But do not let any Galra know of your knowledge: they would not react well, to say the least.”

Keith nodded. But it was a sour thing to swallow. Did Zarkon tell him this to help Keith make allies, or was Zarkon protecting himself? Keith didn’t bother lying to himself that Zarkon told him it to benefit Keith only. He doubted that Zarkon trusted him a modicum more with Keith’s promise to help. Zarkon would be a fool to.

“With your agreement, then, we can move to the Empire’s foundations. We existed long before Voltron—except for what remains of the Alteans, we are the oldest civilization known to any you will meet. Our people were… divided, however. You have noticed the variation between us? Physically?”

Keith frowned. “Some of you are more, uh. Animal-like, if that’s what you mean.” He couldn’t think of a kinder way to put it.

Zarkon laughed, at least. “Do not let them hear you describe it as such. They view themselves as purer and closer to our ancestors. The Galra are—were— divided into ranks. Those highest are warriors; those lowest, gatherers and farmers. The strongest rule. But it was a foolish system. I was born into a gathering rank. My forefathers collected cactus water and herbs from the wild. Even as a child, however, I could strike down the strongest in my hold.”

So that’s what Volux had meant by ‘Yexin’: a high-ranking group. He’d killed an upper-echelon Galra, and for all Zarkon’s talk of the system being past tense, Volux spoke like it still mattered. “How did you join Voltron, then?”

“The military is always open to even the lowest wretch. I joined and came to be noticed by other civilizations—even if my own race passed me over at the time.” Keith realized he was tensed up. The narrative was _familiar_. Unnoticed, looked down on, ignored… Keith knew what it was like. He’d walked into the Garrison a charity case, and he’d left it with a reputation. He was the greatest pilot at the Garrison. Even washing out hadn’t destroyed that. Zarkon… Zarkon wouldn’t know that past. He couldn’t plan for it. Which made the understanding worse: he and Zarkon came from a similar place.

“When I became the Black Paladin, there was outrage. But it didn’t matter. As the Paladin, I took an exalted position in society—I chose officers, Keith, who came from backgrounds like my own. All skilled. All passed over. The balance changed, and now any rank of Galra can become powerful.” Zarkon frowned. “But there will always be elements that hold on to their unearned station. Some Galra resent—even thousands of years later—losing their rank. Few will take a public stand. But I would not be shocked if one of them struck out at someone close to me who is even lower ranked than my station, or if it was vengeance.”

“He was Yexin-ranked,” Keith said. Zarkon blinked, the only sign of his surprise. “So it could be because I was human, or because they just hate you. How high up are Yexins?”

“They are hunters,” Zarkon said. “Powerful, but below the soldiers. Their station fulfills a religious role that has been replaced by the druids. He would—if filled with the right poison—resent those like Haggar as well.”

She had humanoid hair, and Keith hadn’t seen thick fur or catlike ears. She was probably low-ranked as well. “So druids aren’t, uh… native to the Galra?”

“There was a poor, savage, and unwise belief system before them.” Keith winced. That was pretty brutal to say. He wondered what the native religion had been like—he doubted Zarkon was the most unbiased source to talk to about it. “Not that the more blinded Yexin would believe that. Which is why I was forced to dismantle the belief system in the first place.”

He could guess about what came before the druids, though. Yexin were hunters. Keith imagined an animist belief system, based around a desert ecology and a social system that valued strength. But what did the druids believe, then? What made them so easily resented by those who yearned for a past they didn’t really understand? “So he was just a rank-based extremist.”

Zarkon shook his head. “Possibly. There are other factors at work. You must understand that Voltron—until your appearance—hadn’t been formed for over ten thousand years. You know its power,” Zarkon said. “You know that forgetting it would be… unwise. But outside your Altean allies, nobody except I remembered Voltron’s strength.” Zarkon looked out the window. “While Voltron took hold as a myth, I spent millennia hunting for all the Lions. While I attained the Red Lion, I was unable to use it. There were some who accused me—in private, of course—of being obsessed, and that being such had made me weak. While Voltron’s recent actions have revealed its power once more, I’m certain that some will wish you dead. If you are gone, the Red Lion will pass into my hands, sating part of my quest and removing Voltron as an obstacle. They do not understand the nature of being a Paladin.”

They didn’t. Zarkon’s words reinforced what he’d seen in his dreams: the Red Paladin could not be easily replaced, and that was why Keith was still alive. To stop Voltron, let alone take it over, Zarkon would need more than the Red Lion to be under his control. After all, the Red Lion had been in Zarkon’s hands for millennia and he hadn’t been able to find a new Paladin. Maybe if it’d been blue, or green, the quest would have ended sooner. But would the average Galra believe that? Zarkon was a God-Emperor. For those with faith, there was nothing he couldn’t do. And for those who hated him, his inability to replace the Red Paladin was simply more evidence that he was wrong for the Galra.

Keith slumped back in his chair. “You haven’t even touched those who’d be jealous,” Keith said. Zarkon snorted, the sound so uncharacteristic Keith startled. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? That some people would be upset that you’re keeping me around and talking to me. You said that I’d be below your own rank, and it sounds like it was pretty fucking low.”

“You are not wrong,” Zarkon said. “There are some who’ll resent you. Of the three groups, they pose as great a threat as the others. And I cannot tell you from which the officer spawned. Not yet. But I will say that this traitor is not working with the original traitor.”

Keith nodded slowly. “They helped us,” Keith said. “They wouldn’t have stabbed me in the showers. Wouldn’t tell someone to, either.” He paused. “You can’t ask about the traitor, though. Not directly.”

Zarkon turned back, a faint smile on his face. “You’re learning. While I can ruin this traitor’s family, showing too much interest in you is an admission of weakness. It will also make you a bigger target for any upset with your position. I have a few agents covertly inquiring into the officer’s personal affairs, but I cannot drag other officers into the spotlight and interrogate them.”

So Keith was on his own. But Zarkon had armed him, in a way. He knew something about the Galra. “Is this why you put me with cadets?” he asked. There had to be a reason. Training with them would be a joke. He’d torn through them like they were tissue paper. “Are you hoping I’d find new recruits to each of the threats to your reign?”

“Partly,” Zarkon said. “You proved to them that you’re worth being around, and you proved your mettle to any watching. If I were to send you along with higher-ranking Galra, there would now be less resistance.”

“And now what?” Keith asked.

Zarkon pushed off the table. “You start investigating,” he said, sounding more like the emperor he was. “Feel free to walk the halls, Paladin. None of the sentries will stop you, nor will security.”

“…But traitors will.” Zarkon’s smile was sharp. Keith’s hands shook beneath the table—not from fear, but it’d been too long since he’d spoken to the Red Lion. He needed to find Hyladra or Volux. “No weapon?”

Zarkon spread his arms out wide, as though helpless. “You’ll have to earn it through merit or being attacked.” Now that, Keith thought, sounded like a classic Zarkon test. He tried not to sigh. “Your cell will be open for you to come and go, but you will take meals with the other Galra. I’m sure Hyladra will be helpful, and if all else fails, Volux can be charmed. Be wary of the others, Keith. You have one life to lose, no more.”

Keith stood. “Encouraging as always,” he said and it sounded too friendly, like they were anything other than enemies. He took one last look at the window before turning to leave. He thought about a final statement—maybe a threat for if Zarkon was lying to him—but what was the point? He was fucked. He didn’t have much in the way of choice. The door closed behind him, and he forced himself not to slump against a nearby wall. If he loitered, passing Galra would eventually see him, and if Zarkon left, he’d have to deal with the man’s questions.

So he walked the halls without a destination. He didn’t know where the cafeteria was, or where the training rooms were. He didn’t care to know yet. Sentries watched him pass and did nothing. He stopped in front of a pair once, just to take his time to look out another window. Ships floated past. Some were lazy behemoths; others were small personal ships that zipped between parts of the station.

He’d made a choice. But it’d never truly been a choice: he could sit in his cell and slowly go mad, or he could pretend to work with Zarkon and gain access to others. The former meant he’d be trapped for the foreseeable future. Working with Zarkon, though, meant he could find the traitor—his traitor—and work with them to escape. He’d played Zarkon’s game so far and he could keep playing it until he escaped. Being attacked in the shower, he realized, was a blessing. If he found the Yexin officer’s fellow traitors, he wouldn’t have to give up his own traitor. It gave him more time to figure out an escape. It gave him more time to figure out how to get the Red Lion. Maybe, he thought, he could use rooting out other traitors to get the Holts freed without giving away his only escape.

Was he good enough to do it? Probably not. But he could try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. <3


	8. Chapter 8

Where did he start, though? Finding new people was… intimidating. He struggled with his own species, let alone a new one. But not reaching out to others meant relying on two people: Hyladra and Volux. Would either have information on traitors? Unlikely. But their connections might bring him closer to the answers he wanted. Hyladra, at least, was a star in her own right, and she might have known the Yexin officer. Whatever Volux was as a druid… well, who knew? Nobody he could ask straight-out. He doubted Volux would hand over that information without a fight or deal.

It left him floundering until an idea came: food. That united everyone, right? Everyone needed it and everyone loved it. If he found a cafeteria, he could find Hyladra. There were probably dozens of cafeterias, though. Keith frowned intently at the window. He turned to face a sentry. “How would I find someone?” he asked it. He tried to ignore the faint embarrassment as it stared at him. “Uh. I’m looking for a friend.”

“…PERMITTED. IDENTITY: RED PALADIN?” It waited for Keith to nod. “SEARCH FOR?”

“…Hyladra?” he offered.

The sentry remained quiet for a minute. Was it searching its databanks? Did all sentries have access to that information, and why had Keith been put into the database as an acceptable person to answer? Zarkon had already seen him asking, then. Ten steps ahead of Keith, as always. “FOUR FOUND. FURTHER DETAIL REQUIRED.”

“She’s a cadet,” he said. “Uh.” What else did he know? “Good fighter?”

“SEARCHING.” The sentry’s visor light faded in and out of existence. “FIGHTER PARAMETER FAILED. TWO RESULTS FOR CADET HYLADRA. DISPLAYING…” Holograms spilled from its chest display. One was a shorter woman with darker fur. Hyladra stood opposite, her face grim. Notes written in Galran were written below, though Keith understood none of it.

He reached out to tap Hyladra’s image. “That’s her,” he said. “I’m looking for her location and the nearest cafeteria.”

The sentry didn’t reply. Keith didn’t know if it was judging him or not. He wouldn’t be shocked it was. Keith shifted from foot to foot and forced his arms not to cross. “REQUEST ISSUED TO CADET. PENDING APPROVAL.” Seconds turned to minutes. He wondered if she’d be annoyed with him. He was doing something invasive, and their interactions had been brief at best. If he’d known it’d require her personal approval, he’d have just walked between cafeterias until he saw her.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Uh, can I revoke the request—“

“REQUEST ACCEPTED.” Keith was only partly relieved. He didn’t put it past Hyladra to get him close enough to punch. Or if she’d ask some pretty intense questions on why he’d gone to her first. The sentry rattled off a series of numbers and letters; Keith wished he could write them down. But they made sense when he stepped into an elevator. The almost random string designated floors, sections, and rooms.

He took the elevator alone. The halls were empty when he got to the right place. A bit of paranoia nipped at his heels, but she—and the other cadets—were probably still in class. He didn’t know what time it was anyway. Still, he took long looks at his reflection in the metal walls and kept to where he saw sentries. He listened closely for footsteps. Nothing alarming appeared.

The cafeteria was the size of a football field. It’d confused him at first: there’d been so many doors near the one he’d been told to go to, and the cafeteria couldn’t be _that_ small, could it? Or so close to other classrooms. He’d pushed open the door to a room with a dozen doors, hundred tables, a thousand chairs, and at the end he’d entered in, a kitchen, buffet table, and a dozen other places for food.

Galra manned the front. They worked in adapted military uniforms as they stirred and chopped and grilled. One woman hovered over a series of large metal pots of soup and whisked the contents around. To her far right, another Galra stacked beverages in an open fridge. Some fruits were between the glass containers. They looked foreign and delicious. Keith breathed in the aroma of fresh food.

There were students in the cafeteria—few though they were. Several stared at him openly, their expressions varying from curiosity to aggression. Keith ignored them as his stomach rumbled. He had things he should be doing, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He liked to think he’d been pumped in with fluids and liquid food, but who knew what the care was like when you were in the bacta tank?

A Galra behind the counter met his eyes. She bared her teeth in a smile, though it looked a bit hesitant. Above her, a screen showed what was—presumably—the menu. Written in Galran, it may as well not have existed. He stopped at the counter and found himself staring at her warmth. He wasn’t sure what to say. But the Galra didn’t know what to say either, and her smile slowly died into faint distress. Worry made him tense. “Uh.” No, he thought; not this, not now. “…Is it okay if I eat here?”

“You’re the Red Paladin, aren’t you?” He didn’t want to say yes. He’d killed hundreds—thousands—of Galra. But what else would he be? So he nodded. “The Emperor’s order is to welcome you.” Which didn’t mean she welcomed him, but so long as he got food, it didn’t matter. “What would you like?”

Which made things even more awkward. “I can’t read Galran,” he said. “But, uh. I’ll have any specials?” He paused. “Does this cost anything?” It hadn’t at the Garrison, but maybe it was closed off to outsiders.

“Everything is free,” she said, “and I’ll get your order fired.” She motioned to the soup pots, bread buffet, fridges, and everything else. “Take what you need.” She stepped away from the counter, leaving him to his business.

Which… while he appreciated her acquiescence in feeding him, left him standing there for everyone to see while being very conscious of people staring. He paced for a moment before he went to investigate the other displays. He picked up a plate and wandered between breads and fruits. What would make him sick? He didn’t know. He eyed a plump cylindrical purple fruit. There were no descriptions attached, and he doubted anyone would know the interaction it had with human physiology. The Galras’ blood differed from humans, though it was still iron-based. Things couldn’t be too different, right? The Altean food—despite being gross—never made Keith sick. How different could Galra food be?

He picked up the purple fruit and plopped it on his plate. If anyone complained about him being sick, they’d be volunteering themselves to be his food guide. He chose his juice by colour. It’d come down to a garnet bottle and a ruby square container. He’d gone with the garnet. His bread choice was a warm flatbread, drizzled in some mystery oil and supremely soft. He gave it a tentative pull. The slightly crisp outside hid a gooey inside. That the bread was an odd orange colour was a bit unsettling, but it didn’t matter when it tasted so familiar. It was corn-like. He forced himself not to feast on it yet, though his stomach rumbled in hunger. He waited off the side, near the soups. A few people still watched him, but most had returned to their food. Keith looked from Galra to Galra in side-long glances. They were dressed similar to Hyladra, so he’d followed the sentry’s directions right.

He put his stuff on a pale white tray. The freakishly clean plastic was numbered in the corner—imprinted by some machine. He stood by the tray stack as he waited. There were no clocks he could read. That wasn’t to say there were no clocks: they just ran on a different time, in different symbols. He wished that whatever technology let him understand Galra let him read it too.

“Paladin!” the lunch lady Galra called out. It sunk in after a second. He was Paladin. Not Kogane, or Keith, like in the Garrison. But it was still the same, in a way. He collected the steaming plate of food with his tray and sat down nearby. He lifted the metal plate cover to reveal a… curry, he supposed. Meat in a sauce on rice. He dipped a piece of his bread into the sauce and nibbled. Its heat was strong, but it was more sour than anything else. He sipped his garnet drink to find a palatable sweetness. Between the bread, drink, and curry, he managed. He took it slowly, waiting for any sickness. None came.

What did come was a smaller Galra, thin-limbed and svelte. His wide eyes were intent on Keith. He sat in the chair opposite, his ears flicked back. The ears were short and a reddish-purple. “Paladin,” the Galra said, gracious and smooth; he nodded to Keith, the gesture respectful. Keith raised an eyebrow. “You attacked Central Command.”

Keith’s grip on his bread tightened. “I did.” He didn’t frown. “Do you have something to say about it?”

“My brother died,” the Galra said, still calm; “he died in the section your machine attacked.” Keith tried to decipher the expression that flashed over the Galra’s face, but he couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t sadness. It was something beyond that. “The Emperor has condoned your presence. I bow to his will, Paladin, but I will never forget what you did.”

 _I’ll kill you eventually_ went unsaid. Keith didn’t begrudge it. He nodded. “Don’t expect you to.” Keith let his bread drop into the curry. “Feel free to a knife in the back. But you’ll have to get in line.” Which was cartoonishly evil to say. He grabbed the cylindrical fruit. Its thick peel felt rubbery in his hands. He used a knife to slice a line into it and peeled from there.

The Galra watched him. Keith tried not to let it get to him. “Even the traitors can be right, I suppose. You come here again, Paladin, and I will make sure you never do again. Let that be our accord.”

The Galra was five foot three, built like a stick, and probably held more aggression than skill. Keith lifted his partially peeled fruit and took a slow bite. He looked the Galra right in the eye. He should be making friends. He needed allies. He didn’t need more enemies. He took a long bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed. It tasted like a light cherry. “No accord,” he said. Weakness was anathema to the Galra. He’d never earn respect if he bowed to a runt. “I’ll go where I please.” That was cold. Some part of him wanted to soften it, but it was the weaker part. The Galra froze before his lips curled, revealing teeth. “Your brother knew the risks. Unless you think he’s so weak that he joined without thought?”

 _Fuck_ and _yikes_ joined together into one thought. Did he really say that? The Galra’s expression split between outrage and grief. Around them, Galra watched. “I hope you die,” the Galra hissed. “I hope your family is _destroyed_. You deserve every torture the druids have ever done.” The Galra jerked to his feet. He tried to loom. “You’re a monster. Your friends will be _killed_ —“

Keith barely stopped himself from throwing a punch. The impulse was overcome by the hunger for knowledge. “And?” he said. He watched the Galra flounder. “You’ll hunt them down?”

“The Empire’s fleet will!” the Galra snapped. “Every single one of them will be… will be _gone_. And then you’ll be thrown to the pits when the Emperor tires of you.” His heavy breathing was almost wet, like he was about to cry.

Keith’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be. Bullying grieving family in hopes of information was not honourable. It wasn’t kind. It was an ends justifying the means kind of thing. He knew now that the other Paladins were free. The other Galra were watching. He looked from the corner of his eye to see smirks on a few. “Go eat,” Keith said quietly. The Galra opened his mouth to speak, but Keith cut him off. “Kill me if you get the chance. Prove your strength by that. I will never apologize, and you would never get satisfaction if I did.”

The Galra breathed. He was staving off tears by a thread. He opened his mouth to speak, but it ended with him shaking his head. He left Keith to his food and walked out of the cafeteria as cadets began to pile in. Some looked at Keith curiously; others’ expressions turned to something familiar. Something that the leaving Galra had worn. Keith’s stomach churned.

A few were brave enough to point. One Galra bared their teeth at him. He ignored them as he searched for Hyladra. Minutes passed as Galra raided the various food stations. Nobody sat at Keith’s table. That didn’t mean no one came close: one man hovered over him and took an audible sniff. Keith twisted around to stare at him. The Galra had shrugged and left to join his friends, armed with a drink and oatmeal-looking concoction. Part of Keith was put off; the other wanted to know what he smelled like.

When Hyladra walked in, Keith tried to keep his cool. A small wave was all he managed; blessedly, she noticed it. She came toward him with all her friends. She wore a smug smile and walked with a swagger. Other Galra watched her, and Keith knew he’d become some sort of prestige pawn. Which… so long as it dragged knives off his back and made him resemble something good to be around. “I was wondering where you waited,” Hyladra told him. She took a seat, though her friends didn’t. She turned to look at them. “Grab me a luliana, will you?”

That hadn’t translated. Keith blinked at the realization. Usually _everything_ translated. How it translated, he didn’t know. But it’d always worked. Maybe there was no Earth equivalent, he mused, and he tried not to be too curious about what it would look like. Her friends left, heading for the food stations. She looked at him and eyed his curry. “This cafeteria always does the best luliana. Do you like the qhin’s sourness?” Her gaze went to the almost-empty garnet container. “I’m guessing not,” she said wryly.

“It’s unusual,” he said. “Not bad.” Her half-smile revealed she knew better. “…Thank you for meeting me, by the way.”

The thanks rolled off her. “We’re eating first before we talk about what you want. Either way, you owe me a good fight after this.” She reached over and plucked a piece of meat from his curry. Her sharp, long claws kept the sauce from touching her hands. She popped it into her mouth and lounged back in the seat. Her eyes closed, and Keith had the experience of awkwardly eating as she dozed. When her friends returned, laden with food, only then did she sit up.

Hyladra’s luliana was a layered dish: thick red leaves separated layers of meat. Bread formed the base. A strange thin sauce—like a jus—coated the dish, like maple syrup. Hyladra used a sharp knife to slice into the pancake-lasagna. “What does the leaf taste like?” Keith asked.

“A leaf,” Hyladra said. A few friends snickered; one gave her an admonishing shove. “It’s toasted in oil. Every layer has several leaves. They add a nice crunch.” She eyed him. “You should try it some time—it’s less sour than a traditional qhin.”

Good to know. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He took a scoop of black rice into his bread. Sauce soaked into it, even through its oil coating. He wondered where the oil came from. Either way, it tasted good, if sharp. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes to either side of their table. Galra were watching. Now wasn’t a good time to ask. “I’m free now,” he said. “…Sort of. I’m not stuck in a cell.”

“I figured,” Hyladra said. “Otherwise you would have never been able to use the station’s coordination system. But I’m pleased to see you joining us. There are other things you could be doing.” Her eyes glinted. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”

What followed was a formal and laborious process. Hyladra went from person to person—five in total—and gave military rank, family rank, and then name. “This is a cadet from the Craln rank, Elin. She works as an engineer.” Elin—and everyone after her—would give a small half-bow at the table. There’d be a quick exchange of questions, and the Galra would turn to their food as the next cadet was introduced. Keith realized after the first two that the Galra weren’t supposed to ask questions. He was supposed to give information about himself in return.

It was awkward. There wasn’t much to say about Keith. He didn’t have a social rank, and he’d washed out of the military. So he offered other tidbits. “I grew up in my province’s capital,” he said. Another time, he spoke about his time at the Garrison. “I was trained as a fighter pilot. It made becoming a Paladin easier.” Whenever his role as Paladin came up, ears perked up and even Galra not at their table leaned in. He kept it vague—he was a Paladin, he’d been trained as a fighter, and his preferred weapon was a sword. Everything else was small things. He enjoyed geography. He knew how to make maps. His first job had been as a busboy at a restaurant. It earned a sharp laugh from Hyladra who quickly covered it. She hadn’t apologized, though she didn’t need to. He imagined it was weird to think of an enemy cleaning tables.

When the introductions finished, everyone still watched him. “So you were part of your empire’s military,” Elin said. “Was that common?”

Keith hesitated. Giving information about Earth was a bad idea. So he kept it vague. “Common enough,” he said. “I wasn’t unusual for joining.” He bit back any more information. He stuffed his mouth with bread instead.

But that didn’t deter the Galra. “Are all humans—or those in your military—as skill as you at fighting? I was there when you fought last in the training room.” Elin’s eyes gleamed. “It was a sight to watch. You’d be hard-pressed to find any cadet in this room who wouldn’t accept a quick fight against you.”

The differences between humans and Galra had never been so stark. At the Garrison, most shied away from fighting Keith after his first display at combat. They’d been afraid of being hurt or embarrassed. Here, everyone hungered for a chance to… what? Take him down? Learn? Keith thought about asking, but he didn’t care to know. It was probably both anyway. Keith reached down for bread to find none. He stared at his plate for a moment. He hadn’t eaten it that fast, had he?

One of the Galra tore a bit of their bread apart and give him a piece. Keith blinked. “Thank you?” he said, though it came out as a question. The Galra smiled and murmured something beneath their breath. It was echoed by the others at the table. It had to be a religious thing, he thought. Maybe something about sharing. In lieu of praying with them, he smiled. It made his face ache. They ate a bit more in peace before Elin spoke.

“What gods do you worship in your empire?” she asked. A few people stiffened. Elin shifted guiltily under their gazes. “I apologize—“

“It’s fine,” Keith said, surprising them and himself. “It’s nothing personal. We, uh… We have multiple gods. From various peoples. Some of them don’t believe in each other’s faiths. It’s a bit messy, but we figure out how to balance it all.”

“And you?” Elin probed. She still looked guilty. Hyladra kicked her under the table.

Keith snorted. “Nothing,” he said. Blank looks of confusion surrounded him. “It’s—I didn’t grow up with my parents. I grew up an orphan.” The orphanage had been secular, blessedly; he’d grown up with a vague knowledge of religions, but nothing concrete. Some of the other children had religions. Those who came in a little older than babies, or whose parents cultivated ties. There’d been a young girl who wore a hijab; another boy kept a rosary that’d been left with him.

There’d been a bit of encouragement from the staff to reach out to his heritage. From his appearance, they knew he was Asian which—to them—meant Buddhism. But there were so many more religions in Asia than that, and even if his parents had been Buddhists, there were so many schools of Buddhism. Which had his parents followed, if any? What festivals had they attended? What were their holidays?

He’d wanted to do a DNA test at one point, but fear paralyzed him and he never had the money anyway. But even if he knew what his heritage was, that meant having to reach out. It meant having to forge a new identity. It meant risking alienation and rejection. His surname wasn’t the result of careful investigation or science. It was the result of his first family’s adoption. They’d been Japanese-Canadian, and they’d been kind enough to let him keep the name, even when they’d sent him back to the orphanage. They’d be nice people. Pleasant, even if he upset them in the end.

The Galra shared bewildered looks. “You have no god?”

“None,” he said. He’d been to church a few times. The Japanese family had taken him to some celebrations once or twice, and Toronto had a Shinto shrine. But he’d been gone too fast for it to stick, and he’d never felt right practicing anything on his own. He didn’t feel like he had a right to any of it. “It’s never really been a thing—“

“Gods are important,” Elin said. “Where do you believe you go when you die in battle?”

In battle, he noted. Not at home, surrounded by friends. It was a default assumption that said a lot about the Galra. “To the ground,” he said. “As a, uh, soul? Probably some great beyond. Join the universe or whatever.”

“The ground?” Elin echoed, appalled. “Our souls may descend to the Great Voice, but the ground is sacred. Your people bury your corpses?”

“What do you do?” Keith asked. The Galra around him whispered.

Elin drew herself up. “We leave the bodies to the soil and the birds. A Galra’s duty does not end, even in death.” It made a disturbing amount of sense. On a desert planet, the topsoil would lack nutrients. A rotting corpse would help replenish that. And birds would naturally find the bodies, no matter what the Galra did. It was just a bit… odd.

“You keep nothing from them, though?” Keith slumped a bit. “When we bury our dead, we mark their graves. Sometimes—sometimes we visit where they rest. Leave flowers and rocks.” A few Galra tittered. He blushed bright red. Was it really that sentimental?

“A Galra lives on in the Voice and our memories. There’s no need to visit when we see them in our dreams.” Elin delicately scooped up some sort of meal and spread it on flatbread. “Even if the Emperor himself was to die, he would have the same burial.” That appealed, in a way. There would be no flashy mausoleums for the rich, nor pauper’s graves. “So all your peoples bury their dead?”

“Not all,” he amended. “Some. Others burn their dead or put them in great buildings; some cultures mummify, or leave their dead to the ocean. I think a few do it like you guys do—leave them to the elements and birds.” He looked over his food, but his appetite was gone. “Burning the body or burying it is the most common practice where I’m from, though.”

Hyladra looked at him, her expression unreadable. “Pray with us,” she said. Keith’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve found no truths in your own empire’s religions, despite them being so many. But perhaps we can offer a bit of solace with the Voice.”

What was the Voice? He wouldn’t know unless he went along with it. He frowned to himself before nodding. “I’ll try it,” he offered. “I’m not sure what to do, though.”

“Follow my lead.” Hyladra looked from Galra to Galra. “Be gracious,” she told them. Then she turned back to him and offered her hands palm-up. “Hold them—I’ll guide you through the rest.”

He wondered if it was going to be a prank. He didn’t put it past any of them: the Galra had a sometimes cruel sense of humour. But he took her soft hands, and her fingers interlaced with his. Her sharp claws pressed lightly against his skin. “Repeat after me,” she said. He nodded. “Among the stars, I hear you.” She waited for him to repeat before continuing. “You sing among the desert sands, below our feet, and You guide us as a beacon. No matter where we may stray, Your Voice follows us, and to Your sands we will return.”

He remembered the song from his dreams. That, and the symbol above the carving’s city. Did the deserts on the Galra home planet sing? He knew some deserts’ sands whistled and roared due to the wind. The sands would move—fall, or ripple—and people would hear it sing. It happened to some beaches. But it was a scientific phenomenon, and surely the Galra would recognize it for what it was. But maybe they saw the singing sands as different from the natural phenomenon. Sure, they might say, it happened naturally, but what they heard was supernatural.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He fumbled his way through the prayer. At the end, Hyladra beamed at him. “You’ll feel the Voice’s power,” she told him. “While you haven’t promised yourself to Her, She’ll acknowledge your prayers.” Hyladra released his hands slowly. “You should speak to the Druids for guidance, if you ever feel yourself lost. They know the Voice’s ways the best.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, though he didn’t believe any of it. It wasn’t like the prayers would do anything. He scratched at his cheek as everyone returned to their food. Conversation turned to casual chatter—about harsh instructors, upcoming tests, and everyone’s hunger for combat training and flight simulators. When a bell rang through the hall, everyone stood in concert. Keith watched as everyone lined up in perfect order to dispose of their food’s remains and return their trays. It was like the Garrison, he thought, except without the chaos. He poked at his food and ignored the bustle.

Hyladra returned to where Keith sat. “You should come with us,” she said. “We’re going to the sims. I’m curious how well your people trained you.”

It sounded more like a command than anything else. But Keith stood, just as curious as the Galra were. How well did the Galra train their pilots? It was useful information. So he nodded and joined the lines of Galra waiting to dispose of their food and plates. When he left the cafeteria, Hyladra and her friends waited for him. Hyladra offered her hand again, palm up.

Keith hesitated. She cocked her head to the side, her ears splaying out wide from her head. “Have you never seen this before?” She gave him a considering look. “I suppose you haven’t.” She held her hand closer. “Take it, and I’ll explain.” He took it, and she began to lead him through the halls. “It is an expression of affection,” she told him, “between friends and family. The warmth between our hands imitates the warmth of prayers to the Voice.”

He bit back a snide comment. She believed. That’s what mattered, even if he’d never thought her the type to have that kind of faith. But what did he know? He’d only fought Hyladra twice and eaten with her once. “That’s nice of you to share with me,” he said instead. Hyladra’s toothy smile revealed a bit of mischief. He jumped when she kissed him on the cheek. It was a dry, quick kiss, but it made him flush. “And that?” he croaked.

“A bit of teasing,” she said. Her hand was warm in his, and he took comfort in her sure step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a side-story to this where we get to see what's happening with the others: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7917613! I hope you guys enjoy it!


	9. Chapter 9

The Galra sim rooms were bigger than the Garrison’s. Not quite cavernous, but they were big enough to hold several well-sized houses. His group entered from the north end: the rooms were rectangles with stations to either side. Each rectangle held two dozen stations. The linked complex ended in a wall-sized window that looked into space. They were away from the centre of Central Command: the window looked out into plain black.

The northern entrance was the only entrance, and by virtue of that, there were counters to either side for students to use. Refreshments were provided, as were computers, and a small five-person staff tended to the students and machines. Hyladra and her friends had their wrists scanned—presumably where there were chips, which was unsettling to think about—and the staffer scanning merely looked Keith over with a dubious look.

Garrison simpods were metal squares with openings in the back and sides. A screen replaced the front window: sensors to either side helped project an augmented reality. Engineers, communications personnel, and pilots worked together in cramped quarters. It wasn’t the most realistic presentation, Keith had always thought. You reacted to information fed into the pod—there were no stakes beyond your grade, and there was little for the engineer or communications officer to do other than report information to the pilot. Keith had heard stories of other personnel doing repairs in space and communications officers rigging up make-shift radio transmissions. Those weren’t things you learned in Garrison pods, though.

By contrast, the Galra pods were sleek rectangles with the back and front covered. The sides were open for people to lean in, and for anyone who wanted to view a pilot’s progress, a screen was built into the pod’s outer back. Various computer stations around the sim rooms allowed viewers to flick through channels of pilots’ progress. Some Galra ate and drank as they watched, like it was television.

Hyladra still held his hand. She led him between the throngs of Galra. The rooms were packed near the entrance: everyone wanted to be near the food. Everyone also stared—whether they were in cadet uniforms, enlisted soldiers, or even officers. “Don’t look at them,” Hyladra whispered. “Looking at them means inviting their curiosity. Unless you enjoy being a spectacle?” She didn’t sound annoyed at the prospect.

“Not really,” he muttered. She shrugged as they entered the room with the window. Most simpods there were empty. The only taken one was tucked into a corner by that rectangle’s entrance. A Galra leaned against the pod, a smug smile on his face. It faltered when he saw Keith. “What do you pilot in the sims? Just fighters?”

“Everything,” she said. “Freighters, fighters, miners, cellblock ships—anything that moves. These ones are best for the first two, though. They’re meant for officer-track cadets.” She stopped them in front of a pod a few feet from the window. Its pilot could view the sim and, with a partial glance, outer space. “I think these ones are the loveliest.”

Keith watched space as her friends surrounded the pod. They took over the one opposite as well. “They are nice,” he offered. She released his hand, which retreated to his pocket. “I guess you want me to take a ride first?”

Hyladra grinned. “If only to see what I have to beat,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder. “Elin! Join me in beating this upstart!” Elin laughed as she joined them, and Elin brought with her another friend. They were on either side of the pod—two to each. Hyladra tapped in something on a Galran keypad. “I’ll go over the buttons. They won’t be arranged the same as yours, and I don’t think you can read Galran, can you? You speak an interesting form.”

Keith climbed into the pod. The walls and floor were metal, but the chairs were upholstered in leather and the screen a projected hologram. It meant there was no glass to break, which he appreciated. He tapped his shoe on the metal to find it felt different from the console’s metal—harder, and less comfortable to rest on he suspected. He hovered over the console’s projected keys and switches, and stared blankly at the Galran characters. “Interesting?” he echoed.

Hyladra nodded absently. “An older form. Like what the Emperor would speak. Understandable to those with an education, but if you were to visit the home planet, the average Galra would struggle. Take it as… classical Galran. What we’d write poetry in.”

Weird and weirder, he thought. So he sounded like Shakespeare speaking, but a little more understandable. He wondered how much that’d coloured his interactions with the Galra, or if his metaphor was even right. Maybe it was more like Tennyson, he mused. “It probably makes me sound smarter than I am,” he said. He looked over at Hyladra to see her growing smile.

“You’re clever enough,” she told him. “But it does add a certain quality to what you say. It certainly makes the cursing surprising.” She reached in and tapped a key. “But if you worry about creating the galaxy’s worst poetry, fear not. It is merely the tone—an evocation of what our forebears wrote.” She considered him. “You truly weren’t aware of it, were you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “If I’d known, I would have tried to stop it.”

“I wonder, then, what I sound like to you. What kind of formality does Galran translate to in…? What do you even speak?” She squinted at him. “How many languages are there, if you have so many religions?”

“Thousands,” he said. Hyladra blanched. “But I speak English, a bit of French, and, uh, a bit of Japanese.” Thanks, Shiro. “But yeah, it’s all translating into English for me.” He frowned to himself. “Not sure how, but I’d guess it has something to do with the Lions.”

Hyladra didn’t stiffen at their mention. Instead, her gold eyes sharpened, though he never would have noticed it weeks ago. “I would imagine so,” she agreed. “Unfortunate that it doesn’t translate written Galran, but then our writing systems have changed over the millennia. We moved from pictographs to characters to something more simplified.”

Keith frowned at the Galran symbols. They had to have been Zarkon’s work: the man controlled everything, so why wouldn’t he change things to be more accessible to the lower ranks in society? He came from those ranks himself, and he’d declared that his new society didn’t care about ranks, despite the obvious influence they still had. Social engineering at its finest, right down to language. “How easy is it to learn?”

“Better than it was,” she said, “but far from easy. You could learn it, though. It would take time, but I’m sure the Emperor would provide suitable teachers.”

What was he doing? Knowing Galran would be useful, but he was acting like a Galra cadet. He’d eaten with the enemy like they were warm friends. He sat in a pod as Hyladra walked him through the functions of each button and switch. “The right is dedicated to thrusters,” she told him, and he nodded and smiled like she wouldn’t kill him if ordered to. He ran his fingers over the console, just to get a feel for the layout; “if you get confused, let me know,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair if I won just because you didn’t know what the keys meant. You’ll get three trial runs. After that, you’re fair game.” Her smile turned predatory. “I’m a top pilot, Paladin, so I’d watch your step.”

“We’ll see,” he said, any bile or acid absent. He wanted to dig up that hatred he’d had before. These were people who’d destroyed civilizations. But all Hyladra had done was spar with him and give him company. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he’d lost the cold that blanketed him. Yet part of him didn’t yearn for the coldness, and the rest was too tired to argue. Only a small voice—tinged with fire—shouted and yelled.

“That should be everything,” she decided. “Hit the switch and let’s see what you can do.” She didn’t lean out of the pod, and Elin mirrored her over-the-shoulder watching. He suspected Hyladra’s other friends watched the screen behind the pod. Everyone was too curious not to. He took a moment to breathe, slow and deep. There were shards of ice in him still. Not enough to protect himself, but enough that his nerves cooled. When he opened his eyes, he flicked the switch. A world projected itself into being: stars and planets surrounded him, just like they had back at the Garrison. It was familiar, yet he looked down at the console and the feeling vanished.

The sim spoke in sibilant Galran. Only some of the information made sense: he was in a new quadrant, flying in an advanced model of single-person craft. The Empire had sent him on reconnaissance, though they suspected the inhabitants would react with hostility. They treated the hostility as an inevitability— one that didn’t matter to the Empire, one that would be overcome with brute force. There was no mention of diplomacy. Keith didn’t waste his time pretending to be shocked. Instead, he followed Hyladra’s instructions on what each graph and symbol meant on the output tables. Once he knew what the symbols for ‘output’ and ‘energy levels’ meant, he was good to go.  Up was up, after all, and down was down in a graph. He tried to imagine a race where it would mean opposite—with up for declining and down for inclining—and shook his head. Of all the things he wanted to contemplate, that was not one of them. “Cadet Hyladra,” a voice said over the speakers, “modify your approach. Two vessels incoming.”

Keith spared a raised eyebrow at Hyladra who grinned. Of course she’d use his sim for her records. It’d make her look good, and she’d get to view it whenever she wanted. He focused back on the controls. The two ships on the radar were sleek ovals that zipped through space with a strange, liquid sort of ease. Keith dipped his approach down, taking an investigative, hesitant position. He knew that it’d end in aggression. It was a Galra sim. But he couldn’t shake off his Garrison training so easily. Let them think they had the upper hand. If the fluid ships tried to take a bite of his ship, they’d be in for a shock.

They circled above him, dancing between each other like fish. A minute passed as Keith’s sensors devoured information on the ships: their materials, their outputs, their transmissions… It all went into the databank. One he couldn’t read, admittedly, but it’d be useful for scientists. “Which key,” he asked Hyladra, “brings up information on their shields? I’m gonna need you to translate that.”

“The crook,” she said briskly. He tapped it and a hologram popped up. She reached over and dragged it close to her. “The shields are some mix of quintessence and heat. That’s all the sensors can tell you.” She flicked the text back on to his console just as one of the ships dipped down to take a quick nibble.

They made him think of sharks—curious, quick, and unaware that a little nibble could spell death for their visitors. Keith ignored Hyladra’s questioning eyes in favour of throwing the ship in a sudden juke. His ship danced along; he looped it above the shark-ship and ended up behind the ship. He didn’t fire. He let the sensors keep rolling, maintaining an odd but curious truce. The other ship circled above. Out of the corner of his eye, Hyladra’s frown deepened.

The ships’ shields were quintessence and heat. The quintessence’s source was a mystery—but the heat less so. He suspected it was channeled from the engine and surrounded the ship like a little sun. He didn’t need to be able to read the Galra temperature scale to know that any conventional missiles would be destroyed. Which left the Galra Empire’s usual arsenal. But how did the quintessence react to lasers and pulse weapons?

The moment he shot something, the battle would really start. So he needed to make sure his test shot counted for something: he turned to the weapon panel and began to tap keys that he recognized from Hyladra’s explanation. Hyladra said nothing as she watched, though Keith heard Elin’s gasp. The ship puttered along at minimal power as the foreign ships swirled around him, waiting and watching.

He timed the weapons perfectly. When one fired, there was enough time for the ship to record impact. The others followed in rapid succession, though the foreign ship didn’t stay still: it bolted away like a spooked animal, and Keith focused on keeping it in sight and in line for the weapons. It whipped between locations, pausing for seconds in between. It was testing his ship, he thought, or the species didn’t work like a human did. “What do the sensors say?” he asked as the readouts popped up on screen. The ship behind him began to fire, and he darted away from the ship he chased. He’d done what he needed to do.

“Quintessence-derived lasers ineffective on contact with shields,” Hyladra said. “Pulse weapons dented the shields, but didn’t do much else. The quintessence pulse dented as well, but to a lesser degree.” Hyladra leaned against his chair; her furry ears brushed against his hair. “Things are about to get hard.”

The ship he’d been chasing pulled the same move he had: it flipped up and then soared down to join the ship chasing him. It wasn’t a surprise—it’d been inevitable—but he didn’t enjoy it. The ship responded to his quick touches as he maneuvered the ship back and forth, between waves of strange fiery quintessence. He wondered if he could use the waves against the ships, but their movements were so coordinated that the race may have been connected as a… hive, maybe? Or the Borg. “What percentage did it get their shields down to? The pulse weapons.”

“10%,” she said, “and that was with the quintessence pulse as well as the normal pulse. They’re catching up to you.”

He didn’t reply as he allowed the ship to slow. His own shields were being pounded by their weapons, but the closer they came, the better his position would be. When one of the curious black ships pressed closer, he spun the ship around. The pod moved with the motion, and Hyladra yelped; he released a quick burst of pulse weapons and a quintessence laser after it. The alien ships had an interesting design: the cockpit was small, though the ship eventually inclined up to something large. He didn’t aim for the back, though. He aimed for the cockpit. “Percentages,” he said.

“Eighty percent,” Hyladra said, her voice shaking slightly. His ship was flying in reverse as the other ships chased him. His target tried to escape, but he wouldn’t let it. “Seventy percent. Sixty percent. Auxiliary power sent to them: back at seventy.”

Keith didn’t curse, though he wanted to. He looped the ship around the black ones, gaining momentum and speed. He flung his ship at the target. It tried to switch thrusters, but it was too late: he barrelled toward it and dipped below, strafing the ship’s bottom. “Forty!” Hyladra’s bright voice said.

The other ship tried to tail after Keith. Its jerking movements were threatening, but he ignored it in favour of savaging the weakened ship. “How much power do I have?” he asked.

“You’ve burned through forty percent,” she told him. “Rate of two percent every second you fire.” It wouldn’t be enough for both of them, then. He needed to use their own fire against them, maybe. The shields weakened around him—not from damage, but because he was diverting power. He trusted in his instincts to weave between the quintessence fire.

“How much quintessence does it take to fuel a ship like this?” he asked, mostly out of idle curiosity.

Hyladra was quiet, having settled in again against his neck. “A cup,” she said. “You’d need to refuel after this—if, of course, it was a real fight.”

“Cool,” he said. Where did it come from? He wanted to ask, but that was probably a secret and he had a ship on his tail anyway. The one he’d savaged hovered in space, likely trying to recuperate. Which was… unlikely to happen, really. It’d stay floating there until his pursuer went into distress. It gave him an idea. “Brace yourself.” Hyladra’s claws dug into the seat, and she pulled herself in. “Not quite what I meant—“

“I’m not having my jaw crack against your seat again,” she told him as he swooped back towards the savaged ship. “Elin, be careful!” The ship spun around several times before it settled in front of the savaged ship. Behind him, the intact one chased him still. But Keith didn’t fire: he pressed close, close enough that the savaged ship’s shields were licking at his ship. He didn’t open fire: when the savaged ship sent out a small wave of fire—more like a short tongue of it—he dipped below the wave, letting it splash out. Waste the energy, he thought; the intact ship arrived in time to have to duck around it too. He glued himself to the savaged ship’s side and waited. He diverted all power to his front shields, as though he was settling in to defend.

The intact ship’s first shot was careful. It skimmed the bottom of the savaged ship’s shields, weakening them, and it made Keith slip from the bottom to the back. Keith took the chance to bodycheck the savaged ship into the fire. It strained his shields—alarms blared—but he watched as the savaged ship’s shields began to collapse. Hyladra laughed as the ship fell apart.

“Power levels?” he said as he darted away from the scene of the crime.

“You’re at fifty percent,” she told him. “The ship you destroyed has lost its cockpit. Pilot can be presumed dead, though its databanks will be fine. A pleasant bonus if you survive the second ship.”

There were a few options to deal with the second ship. He could run their systems ragged and then destroy the ship. He could use the last half of his power to destroy the ship, but then he’d have nothing left, and he still needed to get back to whatever his command was. “How many stationary charges do I have?”

Hyladra paused. “Four,” she told him. “Left key with the strange zigzagging chair.”

Fucking weird writing system, he thought. He sped away from the savaged ship’s course. “Brace again,” he said. The intact ship followed, and Keith let it hit him a few times. He progressively lowered his shields, making them appear weak. “I want to jettison all conventional physical weapons. Button?”

“Top right, far to the right—big circle.” He slapped it. There were no satisfying sounds, but he watched on the radar as dozens of missiles flew free. Some targeted on to the intact ship, which weathered them, while others picked apart the savaged ship’s front. He then dropped off his four stationary quintessence charges. The intact ship was arrogant enough to plough through everything. It’d waste the ship’s power to push all the shrapnel away with shields, once the missiles were all detonated. Even if the ship kept the shields up, the charges would explode when touched by the shields. Keith zipped within the shrapnel field, his charges indistinguishable from shrapnel and debris from the savaged ship except by Keith’s memory and the charges’ sensors.

The intact ship took the bait. It ghosted into the debris field, its shields up. It hit the first charge and kept going, but by the time the pilot realized something was wrong, the ship had smashed into the second charge. They moved to duck out of the debris field, but Keith maneuvered around, caging them in. He put his shield at maximum, revealing his ploy. Whenever they moved to leave the debris field, there Keith would be. More and more pieces of debris smashed against the intact ship’s shield, progressively wasting power. The intact ship tried to dip down and away from the debris and hit a charge. “Shield percentage,” he asked.

Hyladra’s breaths were light against his neck and cheek. “Thirty percent. The charges have been taking out a lot, but the debris are helping. You’re going slowly.” It wasn’t an accusation—or at least wasn’t delivered in such a tone. Keith circled the almost no longer intact ship like a shark. The ship floated, lifeless, but he knew there was energy left to it. The pilot had to be searching for any more charges. They wouldn’t find them: they hadn’t detected the charges before, and there was no reason to think they could now.

Keith—with Hyladra’s translation help—used the console to track the remaining charge. In the chaos, it’d been bumped around and ricocheted off debris. They found the charge waiting near the debris field’s middle, slightly left and to the bottom of the centre. It was the opposite of where the ship would want to go. So how did he corral the ship? The answer that came to him was simple and Galra: charge it. His shields were on high, he had enough power still, and the other ship hovered nearby. But he’d need to be quick. If he took too long ringing the debris field and setting up the charge, the ship would escape.

Keith flew free from the debris and spun around like he was on skates. The lifeless ship roared to life. It made a run for the north—away from the weapon charge—and Keith channelled all his speed into catching up with it. He intercepted its retreat and pounded it with several quintessence lasers. When it retreated, he followed it. “Finish it,” Hyladra hissed. He didn’t need to look at her to know her eyes were bright. Another laser cut off an attempted escape higher up: the sensors were focused on his charge and the fleeing ship, leaving debris to his own instincts to dodge.

It was hard for most people to think in three dimensions. People were used to left and right as the only options for movement: up and down were for birds to fly and rabbits to dig. When people entered that three-dimensional battlefield—via submarine, flight, or space—things got hard. More than a few people with stellar grades and keen intellects failed out of the Garrison simply because they couldn’t grasp combat where there were three dimensions and, in some cases, not even a concept of up and down. There were stories of ships approaching Earth that discovered they’d been flying upside down for the past day; artificial gravity made things weird like that.

This pilot had a vague grasp of the concept of three dimensions. They made movements that took it into consideration. But when Keith drove them down, they fell with little fighting, unable to think outside that box effectively. The last charge tore their shields to shreds. A faint light flickered around them, but a quick barrage would deal with that quickly.

He aimed for the engines this time, in the interests of diversifying his gains. While the already disabled ship would have the back, this one would have the more delicate implements preserved. He used the lasers to slice off the back: the pilot would hopefully suffocate in space while everything else could be salvaged. Keith watched the engines float into the debris field as he ghosted closer to the newly ruined ship. He didn’t know if his ship had the facilities to take the ship on board, but when he turned to look at Hyladra and ask, the screen dimmed and Galran appeared on screen.

Hyladra’s eyes were huge this close, he mused. Her teeth were vaguely threatening if you didn’t recognize Galra pleasure. “They’ll score you poorly,” she told him. “They prefer brute aggression. But your efficiency... that was excellent. Appeal to higher commanders, and your score would exceed any I’d seen.” She pulled back and her ears twitched. “You’re cunning. It suits you— just like your speed does. You were strangely cold, however.” Her head cocked to the side. “Elin! What do you think?” Keith glanced over to his left to see a gaping Elin.

“I—“ Elin straightened and closed her mouth. Then she seemed to remember she’d been asked a question and rushed to answer. “That was incredible! I’ve never—I’ve never seen someone do it so efficiently.” She leaned in to eye Keith, coming almost as close as Hyladra had been. “You know that the pilot who experienced that situation died? No, of course you wouldn’t,” she said, backing off a bit. “But most cadets die their first time, and everyone else I’ve seen do the test after relies on turning off their shields and putting it all into the pulse weapons. More than a few still fail because their ships can’t return to their commanding ship!”

Elin leaned from the pod. Keith heard people speaking outside, some of their voices quiet and others loud. The words he picked out made him flush. Astonishment and admiration flowed forth, and Hyladra’s small nudge and wink made him laugh. “It was just a matter of calculating,” he said. “So this is based on a real encounter?” Hyladra nodded. “Was the species some sort of hivemind? Or, I don’t know, telepathic?”

“Hivemind,” Hyladra said. “They were a stinging insect species with a broodmother. They contacted each other telepathically, though that didn’t work out for them in the end. If you killed one of them near others, the others would suffer psychic backlash. It’s partly why the second ship’s performance dropped off as it did: the pilot was fighting both you and psychic pain.” It struck Keith as a cruel facet of the species’ nature. The failure—or misfortune—of one hurt the whole. It was apt, he supposed, for his situation. His absence crippled Voltron; Zarkon’s actions made targets of even the most innocent Galra. He frowned to himself, but Hyladra needed a reply.

“That’s shit,” he said. Wise words, he thought, those were not. “Anyone else wanna take a try?” He twisted in his seat and stretched his legs out. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the pod—there were no clocks he could read. “Unless you want the Keith show.” Hyladra’s smile was coy as her ears twitched. Keith laughed. “If you really want me to, then. What about you, Elin?”

Elin shrunk a bit under Keith’s gaze. There was something to her expression and to the position of her ears, but he didn’t know quite what. “I—“ She shook her head, as though waking up. “I’d love to see another one. Your talents are… strange.” She seemed to realize how the statement could be read and blinked. “Good strange!”

“So long as it’s good strange,” Keith said. He looked back at Hyladra. “…How many people are watching?” he asked. He knew there had to be people outside, watching the pod’s back screen. Then there were those watching on the pseudo-televisions. He was the oddity of the hour, after all, and Keith didn’t lie to himself that if a Galra had arrived at the Garrison, he wouldn’t have watched. He’d have been glued to the screen, picking apart their actions.

“A dozen,” she said, “are watching from the back. There are more down near the check-in desks. They cheered when you took out the first ship. They’re quite smitten with you.” She was outside the pod now, and she leaned back to get a view of where the crowds were assembled. “Your adoring fans have grown in number,” she told him when she rocked back to look at Keith. “What test would you like? More combat? An asteroid belt? A mix of the two? Or perhaps you’d like to do some exploration.”

“Pick one,” he said, “and don’t tell me what it is.” Hyladra laughed, bright and clear, and the sim continued. They were as varied as Hyladra had promised: some were explorations that turned to combat. One was escorting a convoy through an asteroid belt—a difficult one, since he needed to input instructions to the other ships through the console, but Hyladra helped him, typing his requests for him. His favourite involved a sinuous creature that slithered through the upper atmosphere of a planet he was mapping. He’d expected a fight, but instead, he’d mirrored its motions, almost communicating with it, and they’d travelled together until the flying serpent left him. Elin’s faint gasps as he mirrored the movements perfectly made him grin.

“You were supposed to fight it,” Hyladra told him, but her tone was far from annoyed. “But I suppose if the AI accepted your friendship, we’ve been doing it wrong.” She frowned slightly. “It would explain why none of us achieved perfect scores.”

“It didn’t make any moves to attack,” Keith said, bemused. “Was it an, uh… attack before it attacked strategy?”

Hyladra frowned at him. “It’s a giant flying snake,” she said. “Of course it would attack!” Keith squinted back at her. She deflated a bit. “Until you made it a friend.”

“It’s about restraint,” Keith said. “We—there are other planets in my planet’s system. They’re not populated by sapient life, but we’re all trained how to interact with first contact.”

“And first contact is… dancing around with a flying snake?” Hyladra stared at him like he had five heads. “I believe it is good that your race’s experiences with ‘first contact’ are so few. There are many empires that would devour your kind. But if your talents are common, perhaps they have nothing to fear.” A slight smile made her look conspiratorial. “You seem special, though. Your entire ‘Voltron’ team seems notable.”

“We’re unusual,” he said. “I guess. I mean—“ He didn’t want to talk about it. “All this is being recorded to your account, right?”

Hyladra laughed. “It is,” she said, “but they’ll realize it wasn’t me soon enough. Your style is too different from mine, and the story of what’s happened will make it back to them. Perhaps—in admiration—they’ll allow you to have your own personal account and access.”

“I’ll always need a Galra around,” he said wryly. “Otherwise, I’ll never be able to figure out the keys.”

“You were remembering them by the end,” she argued. “You picked up the symbols quite quickly! A few more times with this, and you’ll know the basics by heart.” She grinned. “But you could always ask for lessons on reading. I’m sure there are Galra who’d love the privilege of teaching the Red Paladin—star of the sim, king of combat—how to read children’s books.”

Part of Keith wanted to cringe in embarrassment. But when he’d already shown his skills, what did the sly teasing of others matter? So he laughed. “Do you know any who’d volunteer?”

“Maybe,” she decided. “I’ll ask. But—“ and here a low bell rang, its sound even penetrating into the pod. “Ah, there it is.” She pulled out from the pod. “Classes again!”

He tried to pretend he felt no sadness. He wouldn’t miss them, he told himself: they were friends, but he was free and there was so much he could do. “How long are they?” It was curiosity. Nothing more. He shifted in his seat and undid the belt across his chest. “I should probably get back to my, uh, room.” ‘Room’. That was a blatant lie, but he doubted Hyladra would call him out on it.

She leaned forward and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Eat and shower,” she told him. “I’ll ask around for a tutor—meet me in the cafeteria for supper. You’ll know the time by the emptied halls or by asking the sentries.” She pulled back. “You’re more of a darling than I thought you’d be.”

Keith choked on air. “Hyladra—“

“Your species is so awkward about affection. It’s really quite sad!” She tapped his nose with a clawed index finger. “It is nothing,” she told him, “but the love of friends. How else am I supposed to adore you?”

Keith imagined sinking down into the pod’s metal and vanishing from sight. Was this normal Galra behaviour? He wanted to look at Elin, but that meant turning away from Hyladra. “Friends, uh…” What were friends like on Earth? There were hugs. Bro-fists. A pat on the back. He’d done high-fives with the other Paladins. The last hug he’d had was from Allura. He’d aced a training simulation, and she’d pulled him close for a second. Before her, the last hug he’d had was from before Shiro was taken. “...Kisses on the cheek are fine.”

Hyladra beamed. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “Though I promise not to tell the others!” She pulled away, disappearing from view. He glanced behind him to see Elin covering a smile. She ducked back as well, and Keith climbed from the pod in time to see groups of Galra slowly moving down the hall. They kept looking back—back for him, he realized, when Galra began pointing and grinning at him. Hyladra came up behind him.

“You put on quite a show,” she said. “It won’t be forgotten soon, and you can be sure at least a few cadets will ask for lessons.” He parroted the word _lessons_ in shock. She laughed. “Yes, lessons! Your style is so different from the standards of the Empire, but they are just as effective. A combination of your empire’s learnings and ours would be unstoppable. You could even offer it as part of a trade, if you feel uncomfortable accepting free tutoring.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. He didn’t really care: unless the Galra tried to hold the lessons over him, he’d take free lessons. None of the Galra watching him approached, drawn away by the bell’s orders. “What class do you have?”

“The legal elements of space exploration and treaties,” she said. Keith perked up. That actually sounded interesting. Back at the Garrison, it’d been a trial to slog through. But here, with the Galra, how different the material would be. Galaxies, culture, and species separated the Galra from protracted arguments between hundreds of Earth countries debating protocols. The legal thoughts behind Galra agreements wouldn’t be based on feuding schools of human nature: they would be based on the Voice, he suspected, as well as Zarkon and the justification for their empire. It would be a window into the Empire.

But joining them would be… weird. To put it nicely. He was a stranger, and he doubted the instructors would let him hang out either. He’d be a distraction at best. So he leaned against the pod’s sharp corner and forced a smile. “Sounds interesting,” he offered.

Hyladra’s nose crinkled. “You don’t need to pretend,” she said, and that’s what he would have said to anyone complimenting a Garrison legal class. She took a step away, though it seemed reluctant. “I’ll see you soon?”

Keith dragged up a smile. “I’ll meet you for supper,” he said. “You and Elin.” Elin beamed at him, her hands clasped in front of her. He knew he should be leery of making friends. If he dug himself too deep, he’d find it hard to escape or even fight properly. He needed to remember that not every Galra was Elin or Hyladra: there were too many Sendaks. And Zarkon… Zarkon reigned above them all. Friendly, cruel, and cunning, ready to exploit weakness and destroy civilizations. All for some sense of ‘greater good’, as though it was easy math calculating how many other species had to die before a single Galra did. The answer, so far, seemed like millions.

They left him to the simpods. All the cadets cleared out, even those who rubber-necked until the door closed on them. Keith thought about getting food. He thought about going back to his cell. But a lethargy strangled his desire to move, and he recognized it and the growing dizziness in his mind as the Red Lion’s strength waning. He thought about sprawling in the simpod, but that’d be rude for anyone who came to use them. Instead, his shaky steps brought him to one of the couches in the end room. Soft cushions enveloped him, the material strangely warm. Was it from the Galra that came before? Or was the room luxurious enough to have heated seats?

He decided he didn’t care. The world was too familiar right now. It was too close to what the Garrison had been, and his heart ached in time with his head. He half-expected his name to be called over the intercom, demanding his presence and lecturing him for skipping class. He’d eaten lunch with cadets, gone to simpods with them, and chatted like they were equals. As though he wasn’t a prisoner of their Emperor. As though he hadn’t killed thousands of Galra. He wondered, then, how the smaller Galra who’d lost a brother felt to see his enemy pampered and kissed and touched by his fellow cadets. Admired, almost, even in the strange objectification of the cadets. How bitter would that taste?

But he needed to meditate. He needed to draw the Red Lion to him. Whatever bond he had, it was progressively crippling him. Did the Red Lion realize that? Was that why it’d entered his dreams? He wanted to talk to it, but he felt like a fool to even think about that. All the Red Lion had ever communicated was emotions. Raw, unfiltered, powerful emotions that swept Keith away like a storm.

What was the emotion that dominated him the most? Exhaustion was one. Fear and worry. Sending those would alarm the Lion, though, and he didn’t want to make it upset. It already seemed upset enough. So he thought back to his feeling when he’d danced with the flying snake. There’d been a bit of smugness at the Galras’ awe, and the sim’s quality had been stellar, enough that looking at the serpent’s feathered wings, it felt real.

He wrapped the core emotions—content and pleasure—in smaller emotions. The surprise at the food he’d eaten, the nerves as Galra stared, and the anticipation when the sim had started were all gently coiled around the ball and sealed in place with pieces of negative emotions. He wouldn’t lie to the Lion: things weren’t perfect. But he was all right. Things were okay. The world was not, despite his expectations, collapsing. If he kept up this equilibrium, maybe he could wait for the traitor to help him.

He didn’t know how to send it. So he focused on the Red Lion and the dreams he’d had—those of the cadets, those of the Voice, and those of Shiro. The Red Lion deliberately shown him Shiro, he suspected. It’d been kind of it, though he didn’t know how to feel about it knowing him and his memories so well. He loved the Red Lion. But its sapience was as unnerving as it was amazing.

He waited. He didn’t know how long he sat there, dozing, but he knew that the Red Lion brushed against him in waves. There were no emotions to it—only the quick lightning of quintessence. The energy scratched at his mind, desperately clawing for purchase, but when Keith reached out, it drifted away, washed away by distance. The Red Lion reached again and again, and every time it fell away.

Growls interrupted his meditation. The spitting hisses jolted him awake. His eyes opened to see a small group of Galra—older Galra, in different uniforms—standing over him. One was speaking, but their sibilant hisses formed no words, and their harsh growls grated. He stared at the speaker. “What?” was all he managed. The Galra frowned at him.

“H’ra silas wyen?” the Galra said. It may as well have been white noise. “Ha…” She turned to look at the others. “Lilan silas Krakor?”

“Krakor,” one of them said. Murmurs of assent came from the rest. Keith didn’t know what to say. His own ‘huh’ elicited more murmuring from the Galra. What had happened? He didn’t know how he understood the Galra in the first place, so how could he understand why he’d lost the ability to?

The lead Galra spoke to him again. Her voice turned soft and gentle, like she was speaking to a skittish animal. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he knew they wouldn’t understand it. He shook his head. “Zarkon,” he said. “I need to talk to Zarkon—“

“Zarkon?” one of the Galra echoed. Their voice turned sharp as they spoke, though Keith didn’t understand what they said. When he didn’t reply, the annoyance turned to anger. The Galra spit out something that sounded vicious. The other Galra hissed as their gazes bounced between Keith and the aggressive Galra.

Some instinct inside him urged him to fight back. But he could only fight with fists right now, and he was supposed to be making allies anyway. Not that things looked promising with that Galra. They loomed over him, ears flicked back and their teeth bared. They snarled and Keith’s palm itched as his mind panicked. It had to be offense over him calling Zarkon by his name—not his title. He’d fucked up and he couldn’t even talk them down.

But should he? Even if he’d been able to speak Galran, he’d have called Zarkon by his name. He wasn’t one of his servants who lavished praise on him at every moment. His flat teeth were bared back and he stood. The Galra were taller than him, but he stayed straight and glared. The snarling Galra took a half step back.

The Galra who’d spoke first stepped between them. “V’yak rifde, Gevin didn’t mean to be like that.” Keith blinked. “Right?” She looked over her shoulder at Gevin. His face was sour and he refused to nod. “You understand me, don’t you, Paladin?”

“I—“ Keith’s rough voice hurt his throat. “I do.” He glanced at Gevin but decided to be graceful about it. “I’m sorry for the disturbance, Cadet…?”

“Officer Hetta,” she said and motioned to her heavier and crisper uniform. Why could he understand Galran again? Why had he lost the ability to in the first place? They were pressing questions, but he couldn’t show more weakness by excusing himself. “We’d heard you were here—and that you’d done _interesting_ things in the sims.” Across the room, there was the pod he’d used. Its backscreen showed the last sim he’d done: the ship mirrored the serpent’s movements like a pair of dancers, fluid and light. Hetta followed his gaze. “This is it?” she asked.

“It is,” he said. One of the Galra—a taller man with slim ears and a more feline face than the others—walked away from the group, towards the screen. His hand was up, and in the air, he traced the complex movements that the serpent made. “Uh--?”

“Kymin is a skilled pilot,” Hetta said. “It comes with… quirks. He is studying your flight skills.” Kymin snorted from afar. “Ignore him—manners are beyond him.”

“But compliments are not,” Kymin called back. “You’ve got instinct, even if your movements are slightly raw.” Kymin pressed closer to the screen, muffling his voice. “Your deceleration is unnaturally smooth! You have a light and quick touch.”

The Galra who’d been angry was still sulky. “Are you going to kiss him too?”

“If his fighting skills are as excellent as rumours say, I will,” Kymin said. The Galra’s hissed _starchaser_ was ignored, though Keith didn’t know what that meant. When the insult went unremarked, the Galra pushed.

“He insulted the Emperor,” the Galra said. “And he attacked the station. _And_ he killed a Yexin.”

“For a waste-tender,” Kymin said, “you’re certainly concerned with my rank. I promise you, Gevin, that I have not forgotten any of those. But I can admire the artistry of the enemy.” Kymin walked away from the screen and to Keith. His yellow eyes weren’t gold: they were an intense lemon shade. Kymin offered a palm-up hand. Keith hesitated before he touched it. Instead of clasping it, Kymin drew his hand away. But nobody looked scandalized or surprised, which made him think it was a simple greeting. “You look strange,” Kymin declared.

Keith’s eyebrows rose. “Not as strange as you,” he said. It washed off Kymin. He wanted to leave, but he needed allies. He thought about sitting down again. Would that be an admittance of weakness?

“You spoke in an odd tongue,” Kymin said, “and you looked confused when we spoke to you. Frankly, I must ask if you need a medic. I’m sure the others agree.” There were murmurs of agreement, though Gevin said nothing.

“I’m fine.” Nobody looked like they believed him. “So you’re all officers?”

“We are,” Hetta said. “We’re here to understand the new threat to the Empire.” Gevin perked up, as though he’d finally been understood. “This ‘Voltron’ legend.”

It was a brazen admission of what they were after. But he could use that. “Would you prefer it handwritten or typed?” Kymin laughed; Gevin looked annoyed again. “I’m not here to offer up weaknesses and classified information. But if you’re looking for a training partner—“ and here Gevin snorted, which Keith ignored—“I’ve got lots of free time to spare.”

“You should be in a cage,” Gevin muttered. But the others were interested—lightly interested, tentative, even slightly leery. Kymin wanted to battle him in a sim. Hetta wanted to talk engineering, even though he told her she’d be greatly disappointed. And Gevin, at the end, demanded personal combat. “I want to show the Empire what failures your people are,” Gevin said, and Keith promised himself he wouldn’t lose. Gevin would walk away with a broken limb and nose. Which was to say that he accepted all the challenges before he left, ignoring Kymin’s gaze as well he could.

Who did he go to? Zarkon would understand the Lions, but he was likely busy. Haggar was another option, but what would she know about the Lions and—for all her friendliness—her order had been involved in harming Shiro. That arm was her druids’ work. He tried to keep his stride even and purposeful, but his headache pressed against the backs of his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a small eternity.

He asked the sentries about Zarkon and Haggar. “Unauthorized,” was their mechanical response. He couldn’t blame them completely, but he was annoyed. He could go down to his cell and wait for Zarkon to pay attention to him, but how bad would it be by then? He didn’t know what these ‘fade-outs’ were doing to his brain. They might be cooking small pieces. He already felt a bit duller. He stared at a shiny wall for a moment before he squinted at the person reflected in it.

He looked different. Far from the cool, collected, and competent cadet he’d been. Far from the fiery fighter of the Paladins. He was ghost-white, dressed in strange clothes, and felt utterly incapable at everything. For all the praise the Galra heaped on him, he was still captured and separated from his friends and his Lion. “Locate Volux,” he said to the sentry nearby.

“Unauthorized,” it said.

Keith frowned. “The druids’ medical section, then.” The sentry went silent before it—magically—rattled off a series of numbers and letters. He jogged down the hall, hunting for an elevator. He wasn’t being careful, he knew, but he needed to find Volux before things got worse. And besides, there was no one in the halls: everyone was at their stations, working.

He sat in the elevator. He’d tried to stand, but his head hurt too much to stand straight and his legs complained too. His sitting turned to a sprawl after a few sharp turns of the elevator. He waited for someone to board and ask questions, but no one did. Praise the Voice, he supposed. The thought made his headache worse.

When he arrived on the right floor, the elevator door closed on him by the time he stood. Two tries and he was out. He leaned against the wall as he hobbled along. He didn’t recognize any of the rooms or Galran signs, but then everything on the station looked the same. He was going to tell Zarkon that, he thought. He was going to complain and tell Zarkon about the principles of architecture and _interior design_ he’d learned from caring for his shack, and he’d never have to hobble blindly through halls again.

Something moved behind him, but when he looked, he saw nothing. If he’d felt better, he’d have investigated, but he needed Volux. Or any druid. His bond with the Red Lion would confuse a medic or doctor. He slid down the wall to breathe for a minute. Time passed heavy and slow; he could almost touch it if he wanted. When a medic found him dazed and vacant, he was surprised he understood her words. With her help, he limped along. His words were slurred and soft. “I need Volux,” he said. Her tight expression revealed nothing. “We’re… friends. I need their help.”

“I wasn’t aware they had friends,” the medic said. She was stronger than he’d expected after seeing her slim form: ropey muscle bunched and coiled around her frame. She could bench-press him, he suspected, or at least lift him around. Even small Galra were powerful beyond most humans. “I’ll take you to my office—you can talk to them there.”

“They don’t have their own office?” Keith asked, mostly out of idle curiosity.

The Galra medic shrugged behind him. “Druids work here sometimes, but they also have work elsewhere.” She didn’t elaborate, and Keith didn’t press. When she opened her office door, he broke free from her grip to collapse in a chair. He looked up to thank her, but the door was already closed. His eyes closed against the burning office lights. Time passed, though he didn’t try to track it.

The door opened to a low hiss. “I have work,” Volux snapped. “I’m not your _nanny_.” Robes swished over the metal floors. Their feet clacked as they walked.

“I’m going to puke on you,” Keith said. The door closed behind Volux. Keith didn’t open his eyes, but he heard Volux’s mouth click shut behind the mask. “I—I need the Red Lion. Something’s gone really, awfully wrong.”

Volux’s hand pressed against Keith’s cheek. “You’re burning up,” Volux said, “for a human, at least. You may have caught something—“

“It’s not that,” Keith snapped. He opened his eyes to see a blurry Volux. “I couldn’t speak Galran. It just vanished. People were talking to me and I heard Galran as _Galran_ , not English. And now I’m sick like I’ve been when I haven’t had contact with the Red Lion. I don’t know much about the Lions or the Paladins but I can put two and two together to make four.”

“You’re waspish,” Volux told him. “If you weren’t so fascinating, I’d kick you out of this office and send you to your cell. So you think you need the Red Lion—quiet! Not a word, Paladin. You think you need the Red Lion but that isn’t true.” Keith stared them down. “You’ve wondered why you can understand Galran, haven’t you?” Keith nodded. “Then you’re not as oblivious as I thought. Your bond to the Red Lion is… interesting. When you interacted with the Lions, you came into contact with their quintessence. Their energy gave you their knowledge of Galran.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “How would they know Galran?”

Volux’s gusty sigh was full of exasperation. “From the other Paladins that were with it! You’re so clever in some moments and dense as osmium by others. Your distance from the Red Lion is straining this bond. Its quintessence hasn’t filled you in weeks, and your ability to speak Galran is weakening. It would be the same for speaking Altean or Balmeran. Even your Altean allies would experience similar problems. There were Arusians on the planet the Castle was on: the Black Lion learned their language through picking up their quintessence and spread it to the rest of your little insurgents.”

“That’s how we could go anywhere and understand the language?” Keith’s head hurt, and not just from the apparent distance from the Red Lion.

“It is,” Volux said, “but it has limits. Written languages are… difficult. The process for learning them is so far removed from learning to speak a language, and the Lions may not even realize the difference any longer. Note that I bring this knowledge to you from a second-hand source: the Emperor reported being able to learn how to speak any language, but never to write it. You could always inquire with him when you next speak. But while your problem has ties to the Red Lion, it is also uniquely bound to quintessence. Thus my fascination with you.”

“And what now?” Keith winced as he straightened in the chair. “I’m sick and getting sicker. I can meditate and try to connect with the Red Lion, but when I did that this time, I couldn’t connect with the Lion. And I _need_ to speak Galran. I’m useless to everyone if I can’t speak it.” Even to himself, honestly.

“There are ways to treat the symptoms,” Volux said. They pulled a chair from behind the desk and sat in front of Keith. Their hands rested on Keith’s knees. Keith almost shoved him away, but he needed the druid. Even when Volux’s claws lightly dug into his flesh, Keith did nothing. “You could learn Galran and receive doses of general quintessence to make up for the loss of the Red Lion.”

That would take months, if not years. And he’d always be strained. He’d be at the mercy of the druids, constantly hungering for more quintessence. They’d use that against him. Maybe one day in the future, they’d cut him off until he broke. The fix needed to be permanent. “What are the other ways?”

“Your system is used to an abundance of quintessence. The doses would mimic the Red Lion’s constant presence, but there are ways to provide you with a constant flow of additional quintessence. It will come at a cost, Paladin. You will be tied to a Galra until you’ve returned to your Lion—and even then, your Lion will rip the connection apart, hurting you greatly.” Volux didn’t look disturbed at the prospect. They looked excited. “But then you will return to what you were—without the reliance on the druids.”

“Just a reliance on one Galra,” Keith said sourly. But it was better than relying on the druids. He didn’t put it past them to make him addicted to even more levels of quintessence: it would be _useful_ , after all. “How much work would this one be?”

“It’d involve quite a bit of work on my part,” Volux said, “but it could be done.” Volux reached up to trace Keith’s jawline. “Examining the consequences would be thrilling. This is all theoretical, you understand: the Emperor’s separation has been dealt with through doses. He did not wish to be tied to anyone else’s quintessence.”

“How did the other humans interact with you?” The Holts and Shiro had been able to speak to the Galra. They had to—Shiro had been their ‘Champion’, and they’d taken the humans in the first place to examine Earth. “Don’t lie to me, Volux. There’s another way.”

Volux frowned and pulled away. Their arms crossed over their chest. “Fine,” they said. “They received regular doses of Galra quintessence from willing donors. It allowed them the ability to speak Galran.” Volux had wanted Keith tied to a Galra—to Volux, maybe? Did their fascination really go that far? Volux sniffed. “You could have the same done and it would risk the same problem: addiction. The humans we still have no longer receive doses, and no longer speak Galran except for what they’ve learned. By reports, they’re also quite sickly as well.”

“And Shiro?” Keith asked. Volux frowned at him. “The Champion. He received doses as well.”

“He did.” Volux leaned back in their chair. “But his doses have been replaced by the Lions’. Though I imagine the doses are… different. Different enough to cause a bit of pain. An unfortunate consequence.”

His jaw was clenched, Keith realized. His hands were balled in fists. They’d hurt Shiro, more than he’d realized. More than Shiro probably realized—they hadn’t just mutilated and tortured him, they’d fucked up his metaphysical being. Did the addiction worsen Shiro’s flashbacks? It could do a dozen different things to him, and Shiro would be left unknowing.

That could be Keith if he accepted. He could willingly jump down the rabbit hole. Part of him wanted to, just so he’d be able to find out what it’d done to Shiro and let him help the man. Shiro would never approve—would hate himself for being part of the reason Keith did it. Sharp pain lanced through Keith’s sinuses. He needed to make a decision soon. “Who would do the procedure?” He tried to relax as he spoke, but it didn’t help. “And who would donate the quintessence? Or volunteer to be my… bonded, I guess.”

“Who knows?” Volux said.

Keith sighed. “You told me this for a reason. If you didn’t mean to help, you’d have dumped me on to another druid. Your confessions of fascination betray you.”

Volux grinned, the expression odd on their face. “That’s better,” they said. “I would be willing to do it—as would other druids. Even Haggar. But every druid comes with costs. I would do this out of interest; other druids would attempt to manipulate your connections and addiction. And Haggar…. You like her. But perhaps, considering the condition of the Champion, you shouldn’t. She is the leader of the druids, after all, and I’m sure you’ve seen the fallout of her experiments.”

She’d led the druids into traumatizing and scarring Shiro, then. She’d done things to him that’d leave shadows forever. He’d known that—suspected that—but it was difficult to reconcile. He didn’t know her well, but her friendliness and gentleness was disarming. Maybe it was just a good cover. Maybe she’d done nothing untoward, and the experiments had gone outside her control. But he couldn’t say which it was, and that decided for him a reluctance to trust her. He’d hold her hand and listen to her rumbling voice, but he would never trust her with such things as his quintessence. But it didn’t mean he could trust Volux either. “You’re not doing this just out of interest. What do you want in return for helping?”

Volux tapped their chin. “I’m not quite sure,” they said. “I have no interest in learning to fight or fly. Nor am I eager to learn about your planet’s culture. I am disinterested in you as a person as well.”

“Nice,” Keith said. “Keep digging, Volux.” Volux stared at him blankly. “There’s—there’s got to be something. Not just _interest_.”

“I’m a wealthy Galra,” Volux said. “My rank is high, my family mostly soldiers, and I have the ability to wield quintessence in its primal form. When my time here is over, I will return to the home system and study under the prophets. Meanwhile, I am taught by the High Priestess herself—Haggar—and all I talk to respect me.” They paused. “You excluded. But then you’re a bit of a barbarian.”

Volux was a silver-spooned bastard, then. Keith wasn’t surprised. “I’m a Paladin. I have a connection to legends—to Alteans and the Castle. I have to keep secrets, but I’m not going into this owing you. There’s got to be _something_ you’re curious about.”

“…I want your eyes,” Volux said and Keith immediately tried to stand and leave. Only Volux’s claws grabbing on to his clothes stopped him. “Not like that!”

Keith looked down at a half-sitting Volux. “You have ten seconds to make that less creepy.”

“I don’t wish to pluck your eyes out,” Volux said, and that was a weak start to making it not creepy. “Your eyes—physically, metaphysically—see something more. You see a connection with the Red Lion, one that goes to its very mind. What made it choose you? What does it do to your being? These are things I cannot ask the Emperor or examine alone. I want to know the legends, Paladin, and you are a good start.”

“I can already tell you what made it choose me,” Keith said. “Less arrogance. Sacrifice. Faith. A smidgen of honour—“

“—You killed thousands.” Volux’s eyes were not accusing, nor was their tone. “Voltron and its Lions are machines of death. They require more than nobility, and you must know that. If you wish for my help, allow me to look down into your bond with the Lion. Then I will assist you.”

If he went to Haggar and Zarkon, he’d be in their debt. He’d have to fend off any manipulations to keep him bound to them. Yet—“Haggar and Zarkon would do it for free,” he said.

Volux gave him a knowing look. But it was part of the bargaining process. “Are you so eager to in their debt? How do you know that they’d do nothing more?” Volux reached to caress Keith’s palms. Their gold eyes watched Keith. “How do you know,” Volux said, “that they haven’t already done more?”

Keith’s palms itched. It was just from Volux’s touch, he told himself. Claws traced the lines on his palm. They traced back to the centre every time. “Volux—“

“You know what they’ve done. They’ve been waiting for this to happen. If you go to them, you will fulfill their own plans. Do you wish to be a useful tool, or remain yourself?” Volux released Keith’s hands and looked away. “They will provide a donor or Galra to bond with, of course. Specially selected from weeks ago, the Galra will be prepared to coax you into servitude and friendship. Perhaps the Galra has already started such a process.”

 _Hyladra_. But she wouldn’t, would she? She was—what was she? She’d been furious and vicious when he fought her and kind and gentle as a breeze when he spoke to her after. He’d written it off as her possessing her own coldness. When he’d spoken to her and her friends, the coldness had been gone. If he were to fight her again, she’d be the same as the first time. Keith stared at Volux who refused to meet his gaze. Maybe, he thought, Volux was the person he was to be bonded to. He was trying to fray Keith’s friendships so that they could be replaced. But Hyladra wasn’t scum to the Galra: she was a strong and popular soldier. Why wouldn’t Zarkon and Haggar want Keith becoming her friend?

“I won’t be the donor,” Volux said; “nor will I be your bonded. I cannot lose any quintessence as it would cause problems for my work and would raise questions. You will need to supply the Galra and then I will do the rest.”  They touched Keith’s hand. “You’ll need a dose before you leave. Sit down before you fall.”

Volux had a small thumb-sized phial on them. “A precaution if I over-exert myself,” Volux said. They popped the cap and sat down across from Keith. He almost expected a needle. But Volux waved his hand around and around the top, murmuring something in a language Keith didn’t understand. The quintessence floated free of the phial and turned to a stream, a Milky Way of energy. The stream dipped down to circle Keith’s head. The liquid’s glow intensified. Volux spoke faster and faster, the sounds crashing together to form a hum. When the quintessence touched him, Keith gasped as the world turned gold. The world cleared, and his aches and pains were gone.

Volux shut the phial. Most of the quintessence was still there. “That will keep your symptoms at bay for a few days,” Volux said. “I make no promises on your ability with Galra—this is pure quintessence, untouched by memories or thoughts. Can you stand?”

Honey-sweetness coated his tongue. Orbs of light marred his vision. A tingling sensation of warmth and pleasure wrapped around him. He heard Volux’s words but they were a thousand miles away: all Keith wanted was to sleep and dream whatever dreams the quintessence brought. He forced himself to stand. He didn’t wobble but his mind floated along in clouds of energy. He spoke, though his mouth was sluggish to respond. “I’m good,” he slurred. Volux’s brow furrowed, even as amusement danced over their lips. “I’m going to need some time—“

“Take what you need,” Volux said. Keith tried not to be annoyed at how often the druid interrupted him. It was like Volux only knew how to speak by doing it. “But don’t be too long. You have a few days before you need to come back to me, and I’ll be sure to embarrass you in payment.”

Keith left to those words and their strange echo in his head. He felt buzzed, like he’d had too much to drink and then been wrapped in a warm blanket. Even in that state, though, he heard someone following him again. He glanced back, expecting nothing, and saw no one. But he knew they were there. When the buzz was over, he’d find them. They weren’t as cunning as they thought they were.

Hyladra and her friends were eating when he found them. Around their packed table, one seat was empty and a dish of steaming food waited. “I wanted you to try luliana,” Hyladra admitted when he sat beside her. “You looked far too fascinated by it!”

The leaves were crunchy, and the meat spiced to a burning heat that ate away at the buzz. It was different from the qhin’s sourness, just like Hyladra had said. She shared a thick creamy drink with him and laughed when a dollop of foam got on his long nose. His palms itched as he wiped the foam away with his sleeve. When he held a fork to pick at the meat, the metal’s chill seeped into his palm. What was under there? A wild thought in the back of his mind demanded he dig it out. He broke off another piece of the luliana instead.

“I know you have to sleep after this,” Hyladra was saying, “but you should join us again tomorrow. _Rrifwe plov tel?_ ”

He smiled and nodded and the room’s roar faded in and out, stuck somewhere between Galran and English. Hyladra grinned at him and gave a high chirping laugh. The others joined in as Keith’s palm burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	10. an interlude: in the spider's web

The traitors in his empire were as numerous as the stars. It was, he thought, an inevitability after so many millennia: one didn’t change things without causing grudges, and in his early years as Emperor, his temper had been thin as a spider’s web. He’d been full of righteousness: his way was the way of progress and enlightenment, and every dissident a sharp rock on the path. What better way to solve the problem than to discard the rocks—or wear them smooth?

He knew that some clans passed around stories of executions. These stories were the poison of memory. Some he had Blighted; others, he allowed to exist as warnings to the unrulier Galra. When he received their envoys or their enlisted children, sometimes he saw discontent in their eyes. But a month on Central Command—or at the Sonata Palace—quelled any urges for chaos.

It was the same for the Paladin: laden with friendship and luxury, how did you turn around and strike against those who loved you? When the clan members returned to their homes, they brought with them stories of grandeur and purpose. If the Paladin ever escaped, doubtful as it was, what would he return to his allies with? From what Zarkon saw, the stories would be of warm gold eyes and gentle laughs. When the monster looked like a friend, it became difficult to hunt it.

But there was a different spider weaving their little web. He didn’t know their identity—not for certain—but he saw the changes. It’d been large at first: when the shields fell, allowing the Paladins and Alteans to escape, he’d been furious. He’d sent spy after spy to hunt the spider down. But each one returned with little and less, and the traitor made no moves, even though he dangled Keith above them, waiting. It’d taken weeks for the traitor to strike. That it’d been so _public_ was both humiliating and intriguing. They’d helped the Paladins, yet now they tried to kill one?

He’d told Keith there were multiple traitors. It was true, but Zarkon was less eager in private to dismiss his assassin as isolated. The Galra who’d attacked Keith had been sent on a suicide mission. There was no way for them to walk out of the bathroom and be missed, even if Keith hadn’t killed him. So why had the spider waited? It would have been easier to kill Keith in his cell. The cellblock had been sectioned off, true, but a Yexin officer could have strolled in and slain the Paladin with much less fuss.

The spider wanted to prove a point. They wanted to _embarrass_ him, as though he could feel that after so many years. But they didn’t realize that they’d tipped their hand. The shields’ lowering was an admittance to the public that there was something wrong at Central Command. The assassination attempt on his pet Paladin railed at Zarkon’s supposed weakness. They were done by the same person—or the same organization. The traitor didn’t wish to help the Paladin, as Zarkon had thought before. The traitor wished for Keith to die. An unacceptable state of affairs, really. He’d never be able to explain to the Red Lion what happened to her pilot. The Red Lion believed she knew him too well.

Who was the spy? Who was the little spider weaving webs in his garden? There were names—lists of them, really, compiled by intelligence officers. One believed it was one of the small cults that crept from the earth now and then, working to undermine him. Another said it was a lone wolf poisoned by their clan’s little stories. Haggar divined for an answer, but the Voice remained stubbornly silent. It made him suspect the traitor had little to do with the Voice: it knew all who prayed to it.

Of the non-believers on the ship, he did not know their number. He’d never bothered to keep count. All that mattered was that the only religion was the Voice, and that all Galra paid passing respects to it. But there were many who smiled and nodded their way through services or never bothered to come at all. He did not corral them into it. He didn’t discipline them for not going. Haggar disapproved, but they were military. They were the finest Galra. If some of them preferred to find their belief in the Empire through family, loves, or a higher purpose, Zarkon found it hard to care. While he missed the further intelligence that could be collected, he’d long decided enforcing belief not worth the effort. He’d tried for a century once, and walked away with scars that remained.

So who was it? The name he came to disturbed him. Prorok was a man eager for glory but lacking in patience. He’d taken action without approval before, and Zarkon had watched as resentment built in him. Prorok was a non-believer who disdained the Voice’s servants. Even when he’d seen their works, he’d argued for pure Galra might. Footage, stories, and Zarkon’s own orders hadn’t been enough to quell the Galra’s discontent. While other officers could hide their displeasure, Prorok displayed it for all to see. He’d got away with it for so long, Zarkon thought, that he didn’t realize how special, how _unique_ the privilege was. And now he’d bitten Zarkon in the night with shining fangs, leaving Zarkon to puzzle out what had gone wrong.

There was no proof yet. There were suspicions, of course, and much conjecture. With Prorok being so high-ranked and experienced, Zarkon couldn’t simply order his execution; nor did he want to. He needed to take his time and pluck at the web’s edges piece-by-piece. The spider would come out to investigate the pulling, and then he’d remove its presence permanently. Meanwhile, the Paladin could chase shadows until the time was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick this week so you guys get a little interlude! The prompt (something from Zarkon's PoV) came from someone who rec'd my fic to others, and I have a standing thing where I'll fill the prompts of anyone who recs my fics. If you want to keep up with me (or give a prompt!), you can find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com! We'll be back to regular updates after this.


	11. Chapter 11

Trust didn’t come easy. It came as unnatural; Keith choked on the feeling when he felt it, ready for someone to betray him the second he realized what he felt. It wasn’t an unhealthy coping mechanism, as Shiro had told him. It existed to protect him from inevitabilities. When a family adopted him, he prepared for the adoption to fall through. When someone flirted, he hunted for a reason why. Nothing came without strings. Everyone wanted something.

It'd saved him, though Shiro refused to acknowledge that. When someone bad came along, he sniffed them out while others fell into their web. One time, an older student at his martial arts school flirted with the younger students—including Keith. Others were flattered. A few were smitten. But the older student had found a stone wall in Keith, and it hadn’t taken long for Keith to figure out the student’s game. It’d taken even less long for him to demonstrate to the older student that it’d be a good idea for him to quit martial arts.

No one thanked him for it. Most people resented him for finding frauds and predators. They didn’t know what lay under the surface because Keith never told them. They wouldn’t believe him when the person’s smile shined so bright and their words were so warm, while Keith stumbled through interactions and tripped over unwritten rules. “You scare people off,” one girl chided him once after he’d beaten a budding bully. “He seemed like a nice guy, and we’re going to be lucky if he even thinks about coming back.” She’d meant well, but he’d grit his teeth at her disappointed frown. He’d ignored her after that—her and her friends who tattled to the instructor about him. Keith had left that school. Months later, he heard about an unfortunate accident where a younger student’s arm was broken at his old school. He wasn’t surprised at the names attached. He didn’t visit. He didn’t try to claim any glory. In another month, he’d discarded names and moved on. That’s all he could ever do.

In an ideal world, he would cut his losses with the people on Central Command. He’d stop talking to Volux, he’d forget about Hyladra, and he’d never look at Zarkon again. He’d retreat into himself and wait for better people to come through. But that was impossible—both in circumstances and in his emotions. Walking away wasn’t an option when he needed them. The idea of walking away from Hyladra made him feel a bit dizzy. There was no one else on the station that he’d be able to talk to. All of them could be plants. None of them, he suspected, would be quite like Hyladra. But if she was a plant by Zarkon, the person he spoke to, who he let kiss him, was fake. Hyladra may have never existed.

But maybe Volux was the plant. Maybe Zarkon couldn’t directly control Hyladra, so he’d sent Volux to poison the friendship. Yet Volux didn’t seem the type to bend so easily. If they were poisoning the friendship, it was because they wanted to. What reason would they have, though? The answer followed easily. Because they could.

He slumped back on his mattress. At some point while he’d been in the bacta tank, someone had furnished his cell. There were books he couldn’t read, chairs he didn’t care to sit in, and even a computer that he didn’t know how to turn on. He appreciated the effort, in theory. In practice, he’d sworn after thirty minutes of searching for the computer’s on button. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a switch or button. He curled up in bed a bit tighter.

What should he do? He needed to find any plants from Zarkon. He needed to find the traitors—the one who’d saved him, and the one that’d tried to kill him. But where did he start? It was hardly like he could walk up to Galra and start asking questions like that. They knew he wasn’t a fool. Lance, Keith thought, would have been able to play the part to find what was needed. Lance had cunning, even if he was a moron. The Galra wouldn’t expect much from him: Lance wouldn’t have the brute force to _make_ them respect him. But he’d be able to ask awkward questions without suspicion.

He didn’t miss Lance. He missed Lance’s presence—the constant thrumming life that Lance brought. Lance himself was annoying, strange, and arrogant. But just being in Lance’s presence gave Keith an energy he rarely felt outside of Shiro’s company. It’d been weeks since he felt it. It was strange to think that. He’d been unconscious for most of it, but some part of him was keenly aware of the distance and time. Maybe, he thought, it was the isolation. Hope had faded to an ember. He’d always known they couldn’t come save him, but it’d only just sunk in to his heart that he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. It made the organ heavy in his chest.

It all brought him to bed. A day ago, he’d been treated by Volux for the first time. He still saw floating lights in the corners of his gaze. It’d been like the strongest pain medication mixed with a strange hallucinogenic. Like something he’d read about in books or heard from the stories of others. Volux’s statement that the doses were addictive fit what he’d seen. In a world of enemies and loneliness, the quintessence would be comforting. Keith disliked the lack of control, though, and he had little fear of wanting another ‘hit’. But he may not have a choice, if he couldn’t find a donor.

Hyladra, Volux, Kymin, Gevin, Elin, the scrawny Galra, Zarkon, Haggar… none of the names were helpful. Everyone but Zarkon and Haggar could be plants. He scratched at his palm absently. There was one more name, though. Thace. Keith hadn’t seen him since the attack. He didn’t know if he should call that strange or not. The man had other things in his life, and Keith didn’t know if he’d been punished for the attack on Keith. Reasonably, there’d been no way to know what the Yexin officer had been about to do. It didn’t sound like he was a known malcontent. He’d had a good deal under Zarkon’s regime. But maybe he’d been the type to dream of more—or he’d hated Keith just enough to off him. Keith suspected the scrawny Galra would have expressed pleasure about the assassination if their discussion hadn’t been in public.

What would Thace say if asked about quintessence? What would Thace say if Keith asked about plants? Thace was loyal. Presumably. He wouldn’t dole out secrets, though he’d seemed… blunt. He lacked the coyness that defined so many of the Galra he’d met. The Galra as a race seemed blunt, he thought, until it came to secrets. Then they were lousy with sly remarks and long quiet looks.

He stood less with a purpose and more out of desperation. His clothes were old, so he showered and changed them; after that, he abandoned his room for the halls. The elevator swished around below foot. He didn’t have a direction or goal, beyond ‘away from the cellblock’. He didn’t need the heavily watched cameras recording his interactions with the sentries. The surveillance system may follow him, but he needed to move for his own peace of mind.

When the elevator opened for more Galra, Keith shuffled out. They stared at him and whispered, but he didn’t look back. He walked with a purpose, though he didn’t know where he was going. All he needed to do was find a sentry. Would Thace accept his request for his location? Or would the sentry deny him even that? And where would Thace be close to for Keith to approximate his location? Keith’s headache built. It was—for once—a mild headache not brought on by lack of quintessence or other injury. When he found a sentry, he let out a gusty sigh. It didn’t move, too intent on scanning down the hall while its companion covered the other. “I need to locate someone,” he told it. Its head swivelled to look at him. Its gold light met his eyes. “An officer named Thace.”

“…Three Thaces found. One officer. Send request?” Keith’s agreement went unremarked, just as it had been the last time he used the function. Keith spent the passing minutes tracing the Galran characters on a nearby sign. The language was complex in writing, but he suspected that was due to his lack of knowledge. He compared the characters. There were small similarities—small markings comprised each character, turning it into something distinct. Were they letters? Or advice on how to pronounce the character? “Request denied.”

Keith blinked and turned to face the sentry. “Pardon?” But he’d heard it right. Thace didn’t want to see him. Any hurt was washed away with sudden nervousness. Did Thace feel guilty? Or had his failure to prevent the attack made him reluctant to acknowledge Keith? Or worse: was he in on the attack? The foolishness of the thought struck him. Thace had been too close to the attack to orchestrate it, and Zarkon trusted Thace.

“Request denied,” the sentry repeated, though Keith no longer wished to hear it. “Do you require any other assistance?”

He needed to think of a way around it. He didn’t know what Thace did on the ship, and he didn’t know the man’s haunts. He could ask for the officers’ block of rooms, but that’d be huge. He could patrol it for days and never see Thace. And that assumed there was only one concentrated block. “Send another request—“

“Denied,” the sentry said. “Harassment is against protocols. Refer to section 108-1A of the Symphony Accord.” Keith slumped. He was being scolded by a robot, of all things. Which—of everyone on this station who needed protection, Keith was probably the most in need. He doubted he could argue that with the sentry.

He frowned. “I’d like the location of the best cafeteria.” The sentry’s light flickered. It rattled off the location, its programming too dim to catch on to his game. It gave him the location: somewhere high above, far to the right. It fit where he’d expect the officers to be kept: location and rank were connected, after all, and the Galra didn’t seem to disagree with that expectation and association.

He walked the empty halls in peace. It was a good time to be attacked, he knew, but he didn’t care. If he remained paranoid about enemies, he’d never get anything done. And he needed to get this done. He needed to stop the sickness before others found out. He knew, despite their friendliness, the Galra would take the quintessence issues as a weakness. Or maybe not—Volux hadn’t been scandalized, though what did Volux’s reactions matter? They were strange and impossible to deal with.

The officers’ area had the same bland metals and signs. The doors were identical to every other, though there were small square plaques on each, with differing characters. If he could read ‘Thace’, he might have been able to hunt down the man. But he didn’t know how it was spelled, and he’d decided to wait at the cafeteria.

The cafeteria looked swankier than the cadets’. There was more cloth, leather, and colour. Smooth low-beat drums and reedy instruments filled the room. He wondered if it was the Galra equivalent of elevator music. Nobody seemed particularly bothered—not that there were many people about. Everyone was dressed in fine uniforms, varying between simply prim and high-ranking officer. Officers sat in groups, tucked into artificial corners made by desert plants and metal barriers. Staff served officers at their tables, and one woman gave Keith a long, suspicious look as she walked by, heading for the counter.

He didn’t recognize anyone which didn’t surprise him. There were a few dozen people in the lounge, and most of them looked tired. One man gave a jaw-cracking yawn and leaned back into the plush bench. A Galra beside him allowed the man to curl up against them. Keith ignored the scene and the stares sent his way as he approached the counter. He didn’t know the dishes and still couldn’t read the signs, so he defaulted to his standby: “I’ll have the special,” he said, and the man behind the counter nodded, with the only sign of his distrust being narrowed eyes. Keith sat nearby—in a small alcove, near what looked like a rarely used door. The cushioned chair enveloped him.

The table he leaned on was a dark reddish wood with painted carvings beneath a sheet of glass. Sudden exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he surrendered to it: he let his cheek rest against the surface and enjoyed the warm chair. Someone walked by. He ignored them and tried to stifle a yawn. There was something about the room—about the sounds and textures and smells—that sedated his mind. A chair pulled out nearby. Only when the table rocked as someone else leaned against it did Keith’s eyes open.

Sendak’s smile threatened with awful memories and jagged pain. “I’d heard you were here,” the Galra said, as though he wasn’t a ghost from the grave; “I never expected to meet you in an officer’s lounge.” Keith tensed. It made the table rock beneath him. Sendak laughed, the sound as crackling as a fire. His arm—glowing and huge from memory—had been replaced with a smaller model. A model, Keith thought, for everyday use. “Nothing to say, Paladin?”

“I’d hoped,” Keith said, “that you’d died in space.” Sendak laughed again. Keith hated the grating sound. “But maybe next time.”

Sendak bared his teeth in a grin. “You’re not that lucky, Paladin. I may have failed for now, but I always finish what I’m assigned.” He made a show of looking around. “And you’re quite alone, aren’t you? Only the Emperor’s order protects you.”

Keith tasted no bitterness to the words. All he felt was Sendak’s pleasure at being cruel. Keith shrugged. “If you want to kill me,” Keith said, “try. I don’t need my armor or my bayard to beat you.” He leaned forward, pressing close to Sendak. The Galra’s smile dimmed slightly at Keith’s own smile. “I’ve learned, after all. And what are you but disgraced and defeated?”

Sendak didn’t reply to that. But the smile’s dimming turned to pure strain. “The Emperor’s favour has turned you arrogant. Maybe I should beat that out of you. But another time. I am here to rest, after all, despite your disruptive presence. Perhaps I should have them remove you. You have no right to be here, after all.”

“And you’d know that how?” Keith pulled back into his cushy chair. “I’m waiting for someone.” Thace wouldn’t cause a scene if Keith found him here. The man had seemed so proper during their interaction. It’d been a short interaction, but he’d seen enough of the man to figure that out. “If you want to cause a scene, feel free.”

Sendak rested his chin on his flesh hand’s palm. “Your presence causes a scene,” Sendak told him. “Non-Galra come here only as true prisoners—like your princess. Even your Champion was here only to serve.” Keith stiffened at Shiro’s mention and regretted the instinct instantly. Sendak’s smile chilled him. “I still remember our fight. For such a vaunted fighter, he needed quite a bit of help.”

“There’s no weakness in needing help—“

Sendak’s laugh cut him off. “Of course there is! If it hadn’t been for timely interventions from every single one of you, your entire team would be dead, and the Castle—and its Lions—would be mine.” His gold eyes were flecked with poisonous hatred. “I came so close, even still. It was a revealing insight into the legends the Emperor holds to.”

“We’ll become them,” Keith said. “Every story he tells—we’ll exceed it. You caught us when we were new.” He wanted a waitress to come, to interrupt Sendak’s amused look and sneering smile. “You know what we did to Central Command.” His stomach twisted. Did he want to brag about that? He remembered the scrawny Galra still.

Sendak shrugged. “If you give a gun to a child,” he said, “they’ll still be able to kill. It doesn’t make them a good warrior or skilled. It simply means the weapon is deadly.” He still had his head propped up on his hand. Keith watched as his fingers tapped his cheek. “And your people don’t have the excuse of being children.”

Pidge was young—but Pidge wasn’t the problem, Keith thought. Pidge had been their saving grace during Sendak’s attack. Keith had fallen for a simple trick and the entire team had collapsed. He and Allura had been trapped outside the barrier, listening in as the battle happened. Lance had almost died. Shiro had almost been recaptured. And the Castle’s crystal had been ruined, while something poisonous leaked into its systems. Keith almost shuddered as he remembered the flaming star and Allura’s tears. If he’d been competent, he would have beaten the simulation and rescued the others. Instead, he’d stumbled around in the Castle’s low quarters and barely saved Lance. Failure, he thought, was a bit too close to home.

“You want anything to eat?” he asked instead. Sendak blinked and his brow furrowed. “This is the officers’ lounge, right? You’re here to eat.” Keith wished he could poison the food. He looked over at the counter. His food still wasn’t ready, which crippled the distraction slightly. But he talked over the thought. “Or you could go hang with your buddies. I don’t need more attention, anyway.”

“Who are you here for?” Sendak pressed. Keith didn’t hide his sigh. “Don’t think you can distract me out of this. I’m not one of your foolish friends, Paladin. A mention of sweetbread and honeymilk won’t destroy my defenses.”

Sendak looked puffed out, as though he was proud of not being distracted by food. Keith wondered how insufferable the other officers found him. None of them had come up to pull Sendak away. “Christ,” Keith said, “the others were right about you.” Keith ran a hand through his hair, and looked over at the counter. “You’re as oppressive to deal with as a rain cloud. Not surprising, I guess. You weren’t a ray of sunshine at the Castle.” Sendak stared at him. Keith kept going. “Anyway, I’m not here for you. Frankly, I don’t think anyone in the room is here for you. So it might be worth your time to move on.”

“You _arrogant_ little—“

“Tap out, man.” Keith flopped back in his chair and put his feet up on an empty one. His shoes were clean, so what did it matter? Sendak’s jaw clenched and he looked at Keith’s feet like they were hostile invaders. “I’ve got food coming, and you’re putting me off it. I liked you better in the capsule.”

Sendak’s eyes were wide. A tendril of fear crept up Keith’s spine but he strangled it half-way up. He wasn’t going to be afraid of _Sendak_. This was someone who’d hurt Shiro—who’d made Shiro’s nightmares real. If he didn’t space Sendak by the end of the month, he’d have failed. Sendak pulled back, though his sharp teeth were bared in a vicious, soundless snarl. It ended as fast as it’d come. Sendak lifted his head with a sneer. “You have more enemies than friends here, Paladin. I’d keep that in mind.”

“Zarkon wants me in one piece,” Keith said. “I’d keep _that_ in mind. He needs me for the Red Lion.”

“You could be replaced in a fortnight.” A smile spread over Sendak’s face, almost serpentine. “You don’t understand how many would offer themselves to the Red Lion, do you? Who already have. I was taken there as a young cadet. If it weren’t for the Lion’s arrogance, I would be its Paladin.”

Keith shrugged. “But it didn’t take you. It didn’t take _any_ of you, and it never will.”

“Tell that,” Sendak said sweetly, “to all the cadets you’ve deprived of the chance. To all the candidates who were refused—but disagree with you that it would never take them as its Paladin. Knives abound, Paladin, and even the Galra you wait for would have been presented to the Red Lion.” Sendak’s eyes glinted. “And the Red Lion is no so easily forgotten.”

Keith stared at him. Had Sendak been the cadet in the vision from the Red Lion? Sendak looked nothing like the cadet, but aging changed people. And why would the Red Lion send him a memory about someone he thought was dead? “I’m sure everyone relishes memories of failure. I’m the Red Lion’s Paladin. That isn’t changing. If Zarkon thought it could, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? Are you saying there are traitors ready to disobey him and kill me for another shot at the Red Lion?”

“The passions of the heart,” Sendak said, “can rival even the greatest loyalty.” Keith watched Sendak, hunting for a sign of anything. But all he found was Sendak’s smugness. When a shadow appeared over them, he looked up, expecting a waitress.

Thace frowned down at him. “Commander Sendak,” Thace said, though his voice carried none of the respect due to the man. “I believe you have better places to be. I apologize for the Paladin’s presence, as I believe he’s here for me.”

“You can hardly control him.” Sendak pushed his chair out and stood. “Fools are hardly the type to obey orders.” He paused. “Even in the face of danger. Eat well, Paladin. We never know which meal will be our last.” Sendak swaggered away, evidently pleased with himself. It left Keith to give Thace an uneasy look. There was something dark about Thace’s expression, even when the man took a seat.

“I rejected your request,” Thace said. His subdued tone came out gilded in tight annoyance. He sat in Sendak’s seat, but his stiff posture made Keith hunch. Cold gold eyes dissected Keith. “I don’t know if your commanding officers were so lax as to reward such behaviour, but I will not. Following me to this lounge is unacceptable.”

Keith stared. What the hell was happening? “I need your advice—“

“There are a variety of other people you could talk to that are not me.” Thace eyed him like Keith was an unpleasant insect. “Unless the kindness you extended to Wrin has reached the others? You were extraordinarily cruel, Paladin, even for an enemy combatant.”

Who the fuck was Wrin? But the cruelty comment narrowed it down. It had to be the scrawny Galra. Keith wanted to point out that Wrin had threatened him—that Wrin demanded he shut himself away and never be seen again, but what would Thace care? Cold dripped into his veins. “I see. I’ll take my leave, then.”

“That would be for the best,” Thace said. “It was my duty to assist you in the training rooms, but that was all it was.” You almost got me killed, Keith thought, but the coldness surrounded the thought and suffocated it. “Return to the cadets, if you have any remaining friends there.”

 _I have friends_ wouldn’t leave his lips. They couldn’t be friends. They were his enemies. But on Central Command, what did he have but them? He felt Sendak watching him. He didn’t dare look back. There were officers in the hall. A few looked at him; others passed him by without a glance. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He wanted—needed—to get away.

It wasn’t that he’d trusted Thace. The man was a Galra officer, after all, and Keith didn’t really know him. But there’d been something about his presence that demanded calm and logic. If he could fish out information about the druids, quintessence, and Volux, Thace would have been the most even-handed person to talk to. Or so he’d thought. A lunchroom spat and Thace was ready to exile him to space.

Consequences were things to accept. He’d done something that’d pissed off Thace, and as a consequence, he’d lost access to the man’s knowledge. It’d been a good thing, in a way: if Thace was so easily turned away from Keith, it could have happened at a worse time. What would the worse time be? He didn’t know. But he knew his luck, and there would be a worse time.

Who to ask, then? Volux was tainted by secrecy. Hyladra and her friends had been hinted to as plants. Zarkon was Zarkon, and Haggar was Haggar. There were the officers he’d met. He knew little about them, but they’d been too coincidental for them to be plants. They’d heard about his sims and they’d come to visit him—the Paladin, the _Krakor_. If they’d been plants, would Gevin have been so nasty? Hyladra and her group had been honey-sweet. Kymin had been strange; Hetta, pleasantly blunt and collected. The officers had come to him, not as friends but curious enemies. They’d be warier than Hyladra about his questions. But the information he gleaned would be much more authentic. Vague guilt weighed him down. Some of him balked at the idea of Hyladra as a spy. But it was a part of him that was too gullible and too ready to be taken in as a sucker—he needed to be wary of everything around him.

He arrived at the elevator as several Galra were piling in. It was late for the Galra, he suspected, judging by the yawns and bleary eyes that watched him. Everyone was preparing for their night shift or eating their dinner before bed. And here he was, Keith mused, bright-eyed and alert after leaving the lounge. Was it a difference between Earth circadian rhythms and the Galra home planet, or was it just that Keith had lost a complete sense of time? He didn’t know enough about the Galra home planet to say. All he knew was there were three moons. Maybe Pidge could take that and build a whole planet on it, but Keith couldn’t.

He exited the elevator at a random floor. Wandering it gave his mind slight peace—he focused on the passing signs, the soft lights that glinted on the metal walls, and the sentries. When he came to a wall-spanning window, he stopped to look out at the blackness. Did he dare to play that game? It was dangerous. He was unarmed. But he needed something to go on. He eyed the floor. Shiro would call him an idiot and drag him away. And yet— He walked away. Baiting attacks was desperation. He was better than that. But what did it leave him with?

Audiobooks. He stopped dead in his tracks. He was a moron. He was an _idiot_. He’d been walking around, wondering what he could do for information, crippled by his inability to read Galran. But he could understand it just fine in spoken form, and what advanced culture didn’t have audiobooks? Or recorded legends from storytellers? His stride took on urgency. There’d be few in the library to monitor him at this hour, and while he didn’t know the limitations Zarkon would have thought to put on his access to the Galra, there had to be _something_ available. “Location of the nearest library,” he said to the first sentry he saw. The string of numbers and letters once more decoded to a far off room. He barely hid his impatience while in the elevator.

The library he found did not measure up to his expectations. It was, at most, a fifth of a soccer field. There were more terminals than actual physical books: a single shelf contained every bit of paper in the vicinity, and they were placed behind glass. There were plenty of tables with tablets littering them. A few Galra were there. Most were staff that worked behind desks or who were collecting discarded tablets. Of the Galra there to use the facilities, there were two. One woman had her eyes glued to the tablet; the other, a man, dozed at a computer terminal. It reminded Keith of the all-night library he would spend his time in when he was younger. The orphanage bored him, and he preferred the space the library provided. He’d spend entire days roaming through the library. A few times, he even skipped school just to recharge in a back room with a pile of books.

The staff varied between stares, whispers, and concentrated ignoring. Keith ignored them in favour of picking up a tablet and walking towards one of the small room’s corners. He pulled a chair close to the windows—the room’s outer wall was replete with them—and he let his side press against the cold as he curled up with the tablet. He let his right hand ghost over the tablet, searching for an on button. Boots clacked against the tile floors. “Do you need help?” a librarian asked. He looked up into an older face, with crowsfeet and silvering fur. Thick glasses framed her shimmering gold eyes. “Possibly for literature to read, or in accessing your login?”

It was the least aggressive offer of help he’d ever received from a Galra. He blinked up at her. Librarians were the same across the galaxy. “If you have the time,” he said. “I haven’t used one of these before, and I’m looking for audiobooks on, uh.” He couldn’t say Galra culture or technology. That would be blatant spying. “Well, whatever I have access to. I imagine there are restrictions.”

The prim, thin-lipped smile looked as friendly as a prim thin-lipped smile could be. “There should be some adventure books, at the very least,” she said. She held out a manicured hand. Her nails were carefully filed and painted a pleasant gold. He gave it to her and watched as she tapped through the tablet. She paused at one screen and tilted the tablet down to him. “Index finger against the square, please.” He tapped it and the tablet beeped. She nodded to herself, pleased, and began to tap away again. “Would you like me to queue recommendations?” He murmured assent.

When she handed it back, it came with a pair of earbuds. They were… odd. Built for the catlike ears of the Galra, they were big and long. Under her watchful gaze, he fiddled and adjusted them until they didn’t so much fit comfortably as they just stayed in place. She left him to the long list of books she’d queued after she told him the basic buttons.

There were five books. He skipped between them, trying to find anything that might contain something useful. Three were simple adventure books—thrillers about far-flung worlds visited by righteous Galra who faced moral quandaries about how best to serve the Emperor. Their tones varied in obsequiousness: one took a critical tone, another worshipped the very air the Emperor breathed, and the last was strikingly neutral.  He decided to remember that one’s cover—covered in sunset geometric designs, with a single starship in the middle. The last two were strange offerings. One was a legal examination of the Galra codes of conduct. The other, a little romance story of Galra that revolved around rank angst. There was probably good information in both those last two books. If he was smart, he’d listen to them. He tried—he really did. He sat there and listened as the silky smooth voice of some Galra listed off protocols and the legal basis of them. But it contained so much jargon and references to things he didn’t understand. What was the Sonata Palace? Who was Minister Devix? What was the Red Rose Era? He gave up and switched to the romance book. The rank angst would bring him some information on Galra society, right?

He was wrong. An hour passed in strange exchanges he didn’t understand. Why was it a scandal that the Vevis man touched the communal fountain? What was the high song that harmonized with the Vevis man’s low one? Why was that special? When someone got their tongue cut out for singing their family song too high, he gave up. Galra society didn’t seem like that anymore. Was the book an old classic? It had to be.

He turned to the adventure story that’d interested him. He dozed as a Galra man spoke of strange systems and weirder aliens. The Galra visited a planet of ice. All buildings were carved from the surface, into palaces that stretched far below the surface. Walkways arched from building to building. A fountain of some burning liquid spouted up. One of the younger Galra burned their hand on it _. “He might lose that hand, Captain,” said their lead medic. “Unless we can harvest some quintessence.”_

Keith stiffened. The conversation continued. _“Did the stores run dry already?” the Captain said, her frown deep. “I thought we had supplies for the next month.” The medic bowed his head. “It was the skirmish at the border lines, wasn’t it? Damned insurgents. Ask one of the technicians. They should have some to spare—it’s hardly like they’re doing much of anything. There are no plants to sample, or even animals on this Voice-forsaken rock.”_

_Quintessence: the lifeblood of the Galra, and the wasted potential of billions. The Captain’s own levels were high, a result of constant thought and a lack of prayer. She thought, sometimes, of donating. But the idea of someone taking in her essence caused the discomfort one would associate with the higher ranks—those who strove to preserve their fine bloodlines and pure, unbroken quintessence. That her forebears harvested kelp and fireclams didn’t matter. She’d been called out on it once, by a higher officer. He’d chastised her attitude as being unbecoming for her station. “The Emperor himself needs donations,” he told her. “Do you believe yourself better than him?”_

_“Never,” she’d said. But the quintessence given to the Emperor was refined from the touch of mortals. It was the rarest, purest quintessence to be found; it was the kind that fuelled starships. What the average Galra used was coated in an oil slick of personal memories and feelings. Did she really want to spread what she’d seen to others? A hundred planets, a dozen races, and decades of pain would come with a drop of her quintessence. Perhaps, she thought, her problem was less arrogance and more a realization that her gift would be less a gift than a curse._

A finger tapped his nose. He jumped back to alertness as the tablet tumbled from his hands. The earbuds fell out, letting him listen to Hyladra’s keen surprised laughter. “I’m sorry!” She grabbed the earbuds mid-fall, though she wasn’t able to save the tablet. “You were so peaceful that I couldn’t resist.”

“I think you took a few years off my life.” Keith unfolded himself from the chair. He scooped up the tablet and examined it for cracks. There was some dust on it, but there were no cracks or chips. “I didn’t expect you to be up at this hour.”

Hyladra cocked her head to the side. “It is late,” she conceded, “but I just got off shift and heard about the great enemy, the Red Paladin, curled up in the library like a particularly pleased cat. What book were you listening to?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s a space adventure book?” He offered the tablet to Hyladra and she took it. Her ears perked up.

“The Captain of Thorns,” she said. “I love this book—it’s a classic, you realize? It’s inspired so many Galra to join the military, though I understand that the Druids were less than enthusiastic about its tone.” She tapped the screen. “You have good taste.”

Keith smiled. “Thanks? It reminded me of old adventure books I’d read at the library.” He planted both his feet against the floor. “I spent a lot of time in the library back at home—it was a good place to be alone.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you’d be the type to enjoy time alone.” Hyladra sat on the table. Librarians gave her side-long looks, but none came to shoo her off. It was a bit strange. “I wonder, sometimes what your world would be like. I can show you mine in pieces, and you can share small stories, but will I ever walk your world’s streets?”

Keith remained quiet for a moment. “Likely never as a friend,” he said.

Hyladra huffed out a quiet laugh. “Likely not,” she agreed. “But we can dream, can’t we? You could take me to a restaurant, and I would eat your planet’s food. I’d make as many faces as you do too!” Keith’s laugh made her grin stronger.

“It’d be nice to have a friend on Earth,” Keith said wistfully. Hyladra raised her eyebrow, though her expression softened. “Even among the Paladins, it’s a bit iffy, you know?”

Hyladra leaned in. “Your companions dislike you?” She sounded aghast. “But you’re so inoffensive! If not charming.”

“It’s not everyone,” Keith said. “It’s—it’s just one guy. He thinks we’re in some sort of competition. I barely knew his name before we became Paladins. He’s convinced we’re rivals and that everything I do is an insult to him.”

“He sounds unpleasant,” Hyladra said.

Keith shrugged. “It’s not… he’s not a bad guy. He’s just got this massive blind spot. But it makes working together hard.” Hyladra made an odd cooing purr, like a sound of sympathy. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, but it was a weird one. “There’s my overshare of the day, I guess.”

“I don’t mind.” Hyladra slipped off the table and came close. “It is unfortunate that this Paladin doesn’t see you as a worthy ally. But then ambition can be an excellent blinder—there are Galra who refuse to work beside me as they fear I’ll take the spotlight. A foolish assumption, but one they embrace anyway. The only thing that can be done is ignore them.” She stroked his hair. “You should go eat. You look thin—thinner than usual.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. It wasn’t done on purpose, but things always came up. He got distracted. “I was going to eat but, uh. Things happened.” Hyladra snorted. “I know, I know. You should go sleep anyway. You look exhausted.”

“It’s not that bad—“ She broke off into a yawn.  He could almost hear her jaw crack. “…That was unfortunate. I have a report to make first, but then I will sleep. You should go eat in the cadet hall. They’re serving a delicious sweetbread.”

Sweetbread and honeymilk. His stomach rumbled. “We’ve both got places to be, then.” He stood, his legs slightly numb. “Is it possible to check out a tablet?” He cradled the tablet in his hands and wrapped the earbuds’ cord around the square. “And—I know this is awkward, but please don’t share the bit about that Paladin? It’s awkward as hell on its own.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” she promised. “And I believe you can check the tablet out—one of the librarians should be able to help.” She stepped back, giving Keith room to walk to the desk. “I will leave you to it, dearest.” She stretched as Keith awkwardly handed the tablet over to be checked out. She ruffled his hair before she left, and Keith wondered if she’d keep the promise. It’d decide if she was a plant or not.

The sentries gave him the location in the usual numbers and letters. The numbers were always English; the letters, not so much. Most seemed to have cognates with English letters, but the few that didn’t scratched against his senses. He memorized their sound and used the elevator’s vocal commands.  

It was as he travelled the last stretch to the cadet cafeteria that he noticed something odd. Someone, really. Down the hall, far from the cafeteria, Wrin lurked in the shadows like some bargain bin villain. Keith pulled to the side, near the cafeteria door. Wrin wringed his hands and looked from side to side, waiting for someone. “What are you doing,” Keith murmured to himself. Wrin looked guilty as sin. The Galra looked at his wrist and seemed to swear. When Wrin moved, Keith followed. He shouldn’t—if he got caught, there was going to be a minor shitstorm—but who would care? Thace had already bailed, and nobody else had stuck up for Wrin. It was a predatory attitude that was a bit distasteful. But Wrin looked guilty, and he’d talked enough shit for Keith to be interested in him. For all Keith knew, Wrin was having a hookup. If that was the case, Keith could bail before the kissing started.

Keith shadowed Wrin through the halls. As the minutes passed, it became apparent Wrin wasn’t a skilled agent. He was oblivious, despite his constant looking around. Keith wondered if he’d ever been trained to watch for tails—or what Wrin had even been trained to do. Thace seemed to think highly of Wrin, but what did Thace even do? Wrin’s footsteps stopped around the corner. Keith darted into a room, leaving the door partly open. He crouched in a small room with a terminal. Nobody was inside. Wrin’s hushed voice echoed through the halls, despite his attempts to muffle it. “What am I _doing_ ,” Wrin groaned. Keith agreed with him. Slinking through the halls seemed like a bad idea.

“You’re giving up on something that doesn’t work,” a stranger said. They were close to Keith’s room. Keith froze against the wall. This wasn’t a hookup. “Zarkon lets the Paladin walk free, after all. Even after so much death. Including your brother’s.”

Keith heard faint breathing. “Thace wouldn’t approve of this. He thinks better of me than this.” Someone paced—likely Wrin. “But that fucking _freak_. He needs to die. He’s _unworthy_ of the Emperor—“

“And the Emperor is unworthy of us.” Wrin’s mouth clicked closed. “If he loved his people, would he torment them with the Paladin’s presence? He could easily slaughter the Paladin and replace them with a Galra. But instead, he plays the coward and lets his soldiers fawn over an abomination. You know what the Voice says about outsiders.”

Wrin didn’t reply. The footsteps turned more and more frantic. “That—this could get us killed.” Wrin stopped. “The cameras—“

“Are out for the next few hours. They’ll record nothing of us. We can speak our minds.” Heavier footsteps prowled across the metal floor. “You don’t need to agree with everything I say, Wrin. Simply wanting the Paladin dead is no crime among us. You can help us, and then go your own way, returning to Zarkon’s poisonous embrace. You can even sing his praises to the Voice.”

“If you fall, I’ll go with you, though,” Wrin said, his voice anxious. “I—there are other groups.”

“None that would take you,” the stranger said. “Those who value rank would see you as a kelp farmer. And those who wish to remake the Empire would demand much more from you.”

“You want to purify the Empire.” Wrin snorted. “How different are you from the insurgents?”

“The difference,” the strange said coldly, “is that the Voice will always remain. Zarkon has done great things, but he has become distracted from his true goal. I hope that—with the Paladin dead—he can return to it. If he doesn’t, he will be struck down and a new Emperor will rise. I suppose you could gather others with grievances similar to yours. Those of jealousy and loss. But how long would that take? How deep would the Paladin’s rot go before even the roots of the Empire are lost?”

“I need time,” Wrin whispered. “A day, a week, a fortnight—I need to think. You’ve been gracious enough to contact me, but I’m…”

“Scared?” The stranger sighed. “We all start as scared, Wrin. But you’ll realize—as we all do—that there isn’t a choice. Before the Paladin, we worked to support the Chorus of the Voice. After, we will do the same. But for now, our enemy is the Paladin: your brother’s murderer. Think on that, Wrin. Think on the Empire’s past glories, and wonder if they could happen now. Meet me here two days from now, at the same time. If you tell Thace or any officer of what’s happened, you will be dead before the hour is out. And it will not be from our hand.” The stranger walked away, passing by Keith’s door. Keith didn’t move—refused to move as he listened for Wrin’s response. All he heard were whispered curses. They were muffled when a door closed.

Keith thought about entering the vents. Who knew what Wrin was saying? Maybe he was praying to the Voice for forgiveness and guidance. Keith could get a lot of information from that. But vents were dangerous: a single slip, and Wrin would know someone was listening. He imagined a panel of the vent giving out and cringed. A fight would happen then, Keith knew it. He’d be able to beat Wrin, even if the Galra was armed, but that would cut off Keith’s access to information on Central Command’s factions. While Wrin prayed or swore in his little room, Keith slipped away. He avoided sentries’ gaze. They didn’t need to know he’d been there. Nobody did.

When he was twenty minutes away from the meeting place, he asked a sentry for directions. He followed them to the cafeteria and got the special and sweetbread. Honeymilk was offered as a dipping sauce. He carefully asked for the time. He didn’t quite understand the translation, but he stored it away in his memory. He just needed to wait—and survive—for two days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet back up with Zarkon next chapter! Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com.


	12. Chapter 12

“Have you ever thought,” Zarkon said, “that there’s something magical about the stars?” He lounged in his throne, his gaze glued to the floor to ceiling windows. “Just dust and heat, burning through the millennia. And one day, they will stop.”

“And take everything in the vicinity out with them.” Keith stood at the bottom of the dais. His hands were tucked into his pockets. “Seeing a lot of you in them?”

“Or them in me.” He smiled down at Keith, his teeth sharp. “Do you know the founding myth of the Galra? Of where we come from?” Zarkon hummed to himself when Keith shook his ehad. “Not surprising. I’ve hardly given you a chance to understand us. But do you care to?”

Keith shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve started to listen to books.” Zarkon’s expression turned interested. “Nothing—nothing big. But what I’ve been able to access. Captain of Thorns? I was told it’s a bit of a hit.”

“An old classic,” Zarkon said. “I read it when it first released. I found the prose stilted and cold. But the imagery attracted recruits though its meditations on our origins were… lacking. I suppose that not every mind can be visionary.” Zarkon unfolded from the chair. He walked down from the dais, his stride leisurely. “We are children of the stars. Long before my reign, before Voltron, before the _Alteans_ , there were only the stars. Our mother walked among them, a beacon of light even among suns. Others begged for her attention—for her love. But she didn’t care for them. She had eyes for one thing: our moon.”

Keith cocked his head to the side. “Your home planet has three, doesn’t it?”

“And a beacon beneath the sand,” Zarkon said. “But at the time, the moon was whole. She was cold and quiet, so different from the sun’s warmth and laughter. Their attraction came like a spark. They walked through galaxies and watched planets form. They kissed, and small stars bloomed. But as with anything good, someone ruined it. A jealous star attacked the moon--- left her shattered above her planet. And so our mother stayed by the moon’s side. Their kisses spawned the Galra and fed our planet. And here we are, rulers of galaxies, tied to the sands, and forever hoping—according to the poets—to attain revenge for our mothers. Silly stuff, but it feeds the artists.”

“So where do you come from scientifically?” Keith hesitated. They probably knew from Shiro and the Holts, but: “We—humans—come from a primate ancestor. Do you come from, uh…”

“Cats?” Zarkon said dryly. “Not quite. A distant ancestor that split off long, long ago. Beyond that, I can’t tell you much. For all our advanced technology, a concrete scientific origin of life and space hasn’t been provided. The Druids will tell you they have the answers.” Zarkon’s lips twitched in amusement. “You could always talk to Volux.”

Keith stiffened. “I’m being friendly.” Zarkon, Emperor of the Galra and ruler of the universe, snorted. “They’re friendly?” This time a slight laugh. “Okay, they’re imperious. They’ve been—“ Did he admit it? Did he say that Volux was whispering little ominous secrets and hints in his ear? “They’ve been helping me learn Galran.”

Zarkon’s eyebrows rose. “How kind of them. Have you told Hyladra? From what I understand, she’s been asking around for a tutor for you.”

“That’s because I want to get away from Volux,” Keith said. “They’re weird. Aggressively weird. I’ve learned a bit? Like Paladin is Krakor. But while I’m sure they’re a good Druid, they’re not very personable.”

“Very few Druids are.” Zarkon pressed close. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t mention that to Haggar. She’s quite protective of her acolytes, particularly Volux.” Zarkon eyed him up and down, his gaze digging for something. Keith refused to cringe back or flinch. He had nothing to feel guilty over. “You’ve been weakened by the strain on your bond.”

Keith slumped. “I have,” he admitted. “I’ve found a solution, though.”

“Transfusions,” Zarkon said. “From Volux. Your lie was quite weak, Keith. You didn’t even meet my eyes while saying it.” His gauntleted hand rested on Keith’s shoulder. “There is no shame in needing more quintessence. I myself have to receive them. Do you still require a tutor, then?”

“Possibly.” Keith focused on the window instead of Zarkon. “I don’t know how Hyladra’s doing. It’d be nice to be able to read Galran. If nothing else, it’d make reading easier. Audiobooks are miserably slow.” A thumb circled his shoulder. He leaned into it. “Did you pull me up here to call me out on the transfusions?”

“No,” Zarkon said. “If I wished to do that, I would have used your computer. I merely wanted to check on you. You are in a strange world, after all, and I am your protection.” He released Keith’s shoulder and pulled back towards the dais. “It is an odd relationship. I am both your enemy and benefactor. I confine you to Central Command; I provide for both material needs and the higher causes of the mind.” He looked over his shoulder at Keith. “You’ve met incredible Galra, haven’t you? Galra so far from what you expected.” He sat on one of the dais’ steps. One leg stretched out, while he leaned against an upright knee. “Your encounters were not of my design, but instead your own natural mystery and the innate curiosity of my people. I’m pleased that you’ve seen the best of us. Hyladra is skilled and ambitious, but as kind as rain.”

“She’s amazing.” Keith stuffed his hands into his pockets and slouched. The height difference between him and Zarkon was gone. It made them eye level. Zarkon didn’t seem unsettled by that. “She’s not what I imagined when I was caught. Even—even though that Yexin tried to kill me, even with the traitors, I can still walk the halls. I talk to the librarians and they’re just like they are on Earth.” Wrin waited, Keith thought, for him to turn his back at the right moment. Wrin’s agonized war within himself could spell Keith’s death. If Keith told Zarkon, it would be the end of things. But Keith would lose that window into the Galra; he’d lose that little opening to Zarkon’s weakness. Zarkon looked him in the eyes, oblivious to Keith’s thoughts. He’d never know what Keith hid. “It’s fucking weird.”

Zarkon laughed. “Most everything is.” Keith approached him, the movement not even conscious. “Does it tire you? I remember, when I first became Black Paladin, how tiring it was to navigate the Alteans. For all their espoused diplomacy and strange abilities, I felt more a stranger than I had anywhere else. Their attentions exhausted me. They plied me with odd foods and odder customs. They believed it welcoming.”

“It’s… it’s sometimes like that.” Keith looked down at Zarkon, into the man’s eyes. “I feel like I’m floundering. Everyone’s offering hands, but—“ He shook his head. “Everyone’s got knives in the other. Were the Alteans like that?”

“We were far from war when I first became Paladin. But there was, shall we say, _condescension_. I was an excellent warrior but still a Galra. A poor low-rank Galra in need of saving from my own people: so many Alteans lined up to congratulate themselves for being so kind as to accept me.” Zarkon smirked. “And they wondered why they were unpopular.”

It didn’t fit with what Keith knew. Allura was strong, kind, and a blazing bastion of what was right and what was needed. But Allura was one of what had been millions, if not billions. Maybe some had been self-absorbed and enamoured with their race’s technological advancement and status. Or Zarkon saw slights where there were none. It was likely a mix of both. Nothing was ever black and white, he found. “What was the Princess like?”

Zarkon turned from Keith to look out the window. “She was a child—not in Galra years, but for the Alteans. Hopeful, bright, and full of fire, I found her charming, if wary of other races. The first time I met her was at a fair. King Alfor demanded our presence as Paladins to reassure his kingdom of their safety. Alteans hung off my arm, passing by like leaves in the wind. When I met Allura, she demanded I share a gift of some nuts—Voice knows what type, I’d been handed them by a coquettish woman—and I shared. I wonder, sometimes, if she remembers that. I wonder if she remembers grasping for my ears when I leaned down.”

“She hasn’t spoken much of you.” Keith watched Zarkon hunch. “Altea’s fall was a betrayal and evil to her, but she never spoke of fairs and what came before. Only the final attack.” He walked to the windows and pressed an index finger on the cold surface. “Are you trying to do the same?”

“What do you mean?”

Keith drew his hand back from the glass. Outside, ships waited. “Trying to make me become a Galra. Like they tried to make you Altean—or palatable to the Alteans.”

Zarkon’s sigh sounded light but tired. “I learned, Keith, that you cannot make someone into something they’re not. If you are not Galran, I cannot make you Galran. But I can make you comfortable in your captivity. Your actions as an enemy have been… painful to endure. There are Galra who resent you for it.” _Wrin_. “But war is war, and I prefer you alive.”

“For the Red Lion?”

“For the Red Lion,” Zarkon agreed, “but also because I find you intriguing. Different from the usual prisoners that float through Central Command. You have connected to the Galra here. Hyladra sings your praises. If she could partner with you on a battlefield of her choosing, she would. Footage of your simulators have made the rounds. An instructor is incorporating it as an example of non-Galra skill in the cockpit. I myself watched you with the serpent. You moved in the sky like you were born to it.”

Keith shrugged. “It was—interesting. Different from the simulators at the Garrison.” He ran a hand through his hair. The hair that reached his neck had grown longer, probably long enough to be tied back and not look silly. “Hyladra said everything was based on real experiences. Even the snake?” In the windows’ reflection, he saw Zarkon nod. “That’s amazing.” He wanted to ask if they’d killed it. But that would ruin the calm that blanketed the room. “We—humans—have dreamed about space for our entire existence. We’ve trained for space, imagined it, waited for it, and flown to locations barren of life.” He watched Zarkon in the glass. “And then you guys turned up, and here I am now, in a galactic war against ancient titans and machines I don’t really understand.”

“Greatness is sometimes not asked for,” Zarkon said, “but you’ve made an honest attempt to being worthy of it. Few could pilot the Red Lion with your skill. If you’d had time to truly learn the role of a Paladin, you would not have been captured. The Red Lion’s speed would have saved you.”

“Speed doesn’t matter when your Lion’s imploding around you.” He turned away from the stars and wandered back to the dais. “You tore the Lion apart like tissue paper with just your bayard. How long did you have the Black Lion for?”

“Three decades before things changed.” Zarkon didn’t look flattered or smug about the praise. “I fought beside a dozen different Paladins. Death was—is—common in the position. There was never a shortage of threats. It was unfortunate, in the end, that my biggest threat came from my fellow Paladins.”

Keith blinked. “They took the Black Lion from you? I thought—“ His mouth clicked closed. He didn’t want to start shit.

But Zarkon laughed. “You think it turned against me? Or perhaps the Alteans sailed in and coaxed it away? Nothing so righteous. Mid-fight, the Paladins turned against me. It cost thousands of lives, but they took the Lion. They were unable to capture me or take the bayard.”

“What were you fighting?” Keith shifted uneasily. Did he want to dig? The question was already out, though, and Zarkon looked prepared to answer.

Zarkon met his eyes. “An odd race of bone and rags. They’d come from a far off galaxy and needed a new place to settle. Despite Altean attempts at negotiations, they’d decided on an already inhabited planet of some herbivorous cowards. More plant than flesh, their blood was too cool for battle. Their initial fleet was slaughtered as their saviours turned on each other. The Alteans played it off as my crime—that’d I’d gone rogue, determined to help the invading race. Fodder for the gullible, but when the winners had the Lions, who dared argue?”

“Shit,” Keith murmured. “That’s absolute shit.” Whether it was true, who the fuck knew? “But the Galra—“

The door to the throne room opened. Keith’s jaw snapped closed as a throng of Galra walked in. They were all at attention, their expressions smooth and serious. Zarkon drew to his feet, his own face turned flat. “Time takes on a different meaning when you’re as old as I am,” Zarkon said wryly. “It seems I have a meeting. Paladin, I apologize for the interruption, but perhaps it is time for you to leave.”

Polite, but a dismissal. Keith nodded and began to walk away. The Galra officers picked him apart as he passed. One—a wide-shouldered, thick-built man with teeth that looked like tusks—glared at him. Keith barely stopped from sneering back. It wasn’t a fight he wanted.

Sentries lined the halls as he worked his way to the elevator. Down, down, down he went into the bowels of Central Command. People didn’t stare much. Those from the upper levels controlled their reactions better than that. It was when he got off at the cadet floor that people rubbernecked, at least those who hadn’t seen him before already. He paced in front of a window, frowning. Did he want to talk to Hyladra? His mind wouldn’t stop buzzing from the information Zarkon had given him. The man had stirred discontent to life. The thoughts were wired and the feelings keen. There was no way to confirm what he’d said. Maybe, Keith thought, it was deliberate. Keith had settled into Central Command too well. He’d made friends and learned things. And now Zarkon wanted to discomfort him, make him question the certainties he’d been presented with by the Alteans. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. What did it matter? He had better things to be doing.

He wasn’t in the right mindset to be reading. Hyladra would be in classes. Thace was closed as an option, and Volux had their own business to attend to. Researching Wrin would raise alarms. It left one group: the officers from a few days ago. He’d planned on doing sims the entire afternoon, but Zarkon had nixed the plan. A sentry had arrived in the morning, delivering Zarkon’s request. The strange thing was that it _had_ been a request. Options to refuse had been given. Keith suspected that, if he’d refused, his day would have continued as normal. It annoyed him: Zarkon was a tyrant. Why pretend to be anything else? Why give Keith a sob story about what the Alteans had done to him? The answer to that was to poison Keith’s relationship with Allura and Coran. He shook his head. If he thought about it, Zarkon won.

What mattered was that Keith hadn’t sold out Wrin. “Location of Kymin,” Keith said to a nearby sentry. “If he’s on duty, don’t send a request.” The sentry acknowledged him, then went quiet. Keith pressed his forehead against the glass. As freaky as looking out into the blackness of space was, he appreciated that he always had a cold compress. The fever tickled his senses. It wasn’t full-blown withdrawal yet, but it threatened to become that. It’d been three days. His senses were like a stranded seaman on thrashing waves, thirsty for pure water and surrounded by something so close, he could taste it. Yet it’d kill him. Keith could ask almost any Galra onboard to be a donor, and they’d say yes. It would give them power and status, and donation—from his audiobooks—was common enough. But he needed to be careful who he armed against him. It needed to be someone he trusted not to withhold quintessence from him. It needed to be someone who wouldn’t warp the bond to root through his memories and sell them to the highest bidder.

Even among Zarkon’s potential plants, that’d be a problem. They could swear to the Voice and stars that they were loyal, but who really knew until they held Keith’s life in their hands? He imagined bonding to Elin and her demanding money, influence, and status in return for keeping Keith furnished in quintessence. Maybe that wasn’t Elin’s character. Maybe he maligned her in his paranoia. But who knew? When it came down to it, he didn’t have room for mistakes.

No wonder Zarkon used pure quintessence. Keith felt jealous that the man had the choice. When Keith had listened to his audiobook last night, after an hour his command of Galran had begun to falter. Out of fear that his ability with the language was a finite resource, he’d started rationing his interactions with Galra and the books. The game was up the moment Keith’s issue became known to anyone other than him and Volux. Zarkon would offer one of the plants; Hyladra would kindly help, and he wouldn’t know if she was a plant until too late.

“Two Kymins. More detail required.”

“Yexin officer,” Keith said. “Is he on duty?”

The sentry processed the request. “Request sent.” Keith rocked back on his heels and leaned against the glass. A minute passed. “Request accepted.” The string of numbers and letters brought him to an isolated wing of the station. He walked by terminals and offices until he reached a single hall that led to a bulbous offshoot. The hall’s walls turned transparent. The floors showed crystalline wiring and glimpses of black. At the end of the hall, the world expanded to a globe of glass: tiered stairs led into a lounge filled with Galra. A bar, music, and cushy seats and black tables completed the scene. Galra officers laughed and dined. Keith stopped at the entrance, trying to take it all in. A hostess mirrored his hesitation, a menu in hand.

“I’ll take it,” he said. She gave him one, as well as an uneasy look. “I can show myself to a seat—I promise not to make your life difficult.” His lips twitched into a hesitant smile. “Can you point me to an officer named Kymin? I need to talk to him about doing some simulations together.”

Her smile brightened. “He’s over there,” she said, pointing to a pair of couches near the window. Kymin wasn’t immediately visible: all Keith saw was a trio of heads, all watching the stars. Two of the heads leaned against the middle, tallest Galra. It was a sleepy pose, Keith thought, and he wondered how much Kymin had been drinking. He thanked the hostess and ignored the self-consciousness his civilian clothes gave him. Being military was more than uniforms, after all. His straight back and sure step had been drilled into him for years.

Conversations stopped when he passed. Flushed and happy faces followed his movements; whispers bloomed in his wake, just like the colorful flowers that grew in scattered pots on tables and between couches. Keith hovered behind Kymin’s couch before he forced himself forward. “Kymin,” he said, and Kymin’s head rolled back, his eyes hooded.

“Paladin.” The man and woman on either shoulder gave Keith curious looks. Their eyes had a drunken shine. Kymin’s own smile was liquored up to a drowsy shift of the lips. “You should sit. You’ll stand out less.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” He sat on the opposite couch anyway, careful not to mirror Kymin’s slouch and spread legs. People still stared. “I didn’t know places like this existed on the station.” It seemed… unprofessional.

Kymin read that thought. “Even the most controlled person needs an outlet.” His hand carded through the woman’s hair. She buried her face in his shoulder, giggling. “When you’re off duty, the Emperor doesn’t care what you do, and the Voice demands joy from Her supplicants.”

Keith almost criticized that. It was suspiciously hedonistic for what he knew about the Galra. They were based on the military and, if he was honest, he hadn’t read anything about this in the Captain of Thorns. But things changed. Even Earth’s military had small lounges for officers, though they were far from the Galras’ decadence. Maybe it improved their service. Maybe it was an incentive to advance. Kymin’s sleazy grin was far from his direct and cutting manner in the sims. People could be more than one thing, though. Just because Keith felt uncomfortable, it didn’t mean it was wrong.

“Fair enough,” Keith said. “It’s nice to, uh, meet you two.” Neither of the companions wore uniforms. Keith figured they were non-military staff. “Kymin, I wanted to talk about that simulation challenge—“

“Later!” Kymin sat up and pulled his arms from around the pretty Galra. It earned sighs and a huff from the man. “You should have something to drink! Then you can relax with us. You’re always so proper and distant. You’ve earned a small break, haven’t you?” He motioned to the four glasses on the table between them. They were pentagonal and tall, filled with a kaleidoscope of drinks. Kymin picked up a glass where a series of colours—red, orange, purple—were stacked on top of each other. A toothpick lanced strange white berry. It rested partway into the drink. “I can even give personal recommendations.”

 “That’s kind of you,” Keith lied. “But I’m not a fan of alcohol.“ Kymin squinted at him, like Keith had switched languages. For a moment, Keith wondered if he had, but the chatter from those around him was clear. “Besides, we don’t know what would make me sick. I’m lucky to have got this far without needing medical attention.”

Kymin shrugged. “What kind of life is it if one lives in fear of every pleasure?” He took a long sip from his drink and let his head fall back as a sigh escaped his lips. When his head lifted again, his gold eyes were tinted purple. Keith stiffened at Kymin's laugh. “They’re silly things, Paladin.” The woman stole his drink; Kymin didn’t chase it. “Fermented fruits and sugars and whatever else… you would gladly eat at one of our cafeterias, wouldn’t you? Does your sense of adventure die on the altar of temperance?”

If it had been a human, Keith would have torn them to pieces. The warm couch cradled him, even when he shifted awkwardly. “I—a small drink.” His pinched lips were ignored. Kymin’s golden purple eyes were bright. One of the drinks was pushed toward him: it was a milky drink full of round little berries. It felt cold in his hand, and the liquid was surprisingly heavy. He drank a small sip. Sweetness washed over him, the taste strangely tangy and the berries cold as ice cubes. The thick milky liquid left a heavy aftertaste, like cream, and the aftertaste almost hid the swift punch the alcohol delivered. He shook his head, blinked slowly.

“You like it,” Kymin said, smirking. “It’s a light drink, so I was fair to you!”

His tongue was slightly numbed. “It was okay.” Kymin laughed as Keith placed the glass down. A pair of berries were pressed against the inside of his cheek. “This—it’s some sort of milk?” He nipped the side of one berry. Its skin peeled off, releasing a sharp bitterness. It made the aftertaste of sweetness more bearable.

Kymin nodded. “Fermented milk from a _gheron_. They’re expensive herd animals. Rare, but they make excellent cheeses. My family maintains a few thousand back home.” It didn’t surprise Keith. Kymin was a Yexin—high-ranking, a warrior, and skilled at what he did. “What does your family do back home?”

Keith stiffened. Kymin was drunk enough to forget, if he’d heard it in the first place. If he hadn’t, how could Keith be offended? “I’m an orphan.” Kymin’s expression turned stricken, which Keith couldn’t find any satisfaction from. “But the drink was really nice. Thank you for, uh, sharing. What are gheron like?”

Kymin grasped at the opportunity like a lifeline. Gheron were tall, furred creatures decorated in brown ombre fur. They walked on four legs and ate insects and meat. Their faces were long, their mouths short, and their four eyes were a crystal blue when in good health. “If you let them eat meat,” Kymin said, his companions forgotten, “their milk will turn sour. But a diet of choice insects creates the finest cheeses ever made by Galran hands.” It didn’t hurt them to live on bugs—and this is where he lost his first companion, the man, who went to the bar to find more interested lovers—but they could get picky if kept on the same diet long. “Their favourite bugs are spiders. The bigger the better!” When Kymin launched into a description of the spiders, the woman left too.

“So,” Keith said when Kymin wound down. “Are they like anteaters?” Kymin’s blank look answered the question. Some things didn’t translate. “You really like gherons. Do they mean a lot culturally? Or is it more a pet thing?”

Kymin motioned at nothing in particular. “It’s—they’re useful. And quite mild if left undisturbed. When I was a child, I would visit the personal gheron we kept at our manor. They’re very soft, if a bit nippy. I’m sure some poet overly in love with nature has written an ode to the gheron, but they’re far from considered majestic or worthy of a saga. Unless you two know more?” He glanced to either side as his eyes widened. “Oh.”

A smile threatened to disturb Keith’s solemn expression. “I think they were hungry. You were pretty enthusiastic about the gheron, so I don’t think they wanted to disturb you.” Neither of them were visible; whether they’d left the room or were now tucked away in another corner, he couldn’t tell. Either way: “You’re looking pretty buzzed, man. I think it might be time to call it a day.”

The four glasses were mostly empty, except for the drink Kymin had given Keith. Kymin snatched it up and cradled it tightly. “Not yet.” The words had a slight whine to them. “I’m just a bit tipsy—nothing near smashed—and I can get myself to my quarters.” He rolled an azure berry between his finger tips. It left behind darker juices that stained the fur. “But I’m pleased you were interested in gheron. Most Galra dismiss them.”

Kymin’s favourite animal was a gheron, which sounded like the space equivalent of a cow. A weird, multi-eyed cow, but a cow. Perspiration dripped down the glass in Kymin’s hand, and Keith watched as ounces of liquid vanished down Kymin’s throat. Keith still tasted the liquid on his tongue; he still felt its punch. Kymin was full of shit about being able to get to his quarters alone. He’d probably pass out a third of the way there. Shit like this was why he didn’t care for alcohol. For every person like Shiro who held their liquor and didn’t babble about cows, there were a dozen people who drank like fish and drowned like turkeys in a rainstorm.

Keith shrugged. “I like hearing about alien animals.” The floor’s cold seeped through his thin shoes. His feet pressed against the chill when he stood. He offered a hand to Kymin and ignored the initial sour look the Galra gave it. “You can sleep in your quarters.” Kymin shrugged. “I’ll tell you about an animal similar to a gheron.” That earned him a pair of brightening eyes.

The drink’s dregs were gulped down. Kymin staggered to his feet, whoozy but eager. He grabbed on to Keith’s arm and pressed close. “You need to meet a gheron some day.” It was said desperately, as though it was a need as vital as water. “Did you ever visit farms back on your planet?”

Keith steered Kymin between the couches and tables. Smirks and smothered snickers followed them. “I lived in the city.” A part truth. But he was more concerned with Kymin’s stumbling steps up the dais. The hostess from earlier grasped Kymin’s other arm. Between both of them, they hauled Kymin up and out of the pleasure globe. “One foot in front of the other, man.”

“It’s harder than you think,” Kymin muttered. He shot his feet a distressed look, like they’d betrayed them. “It was only a few drinks!”

If alcohol was treated like water, Keith thought sourly. “Did you eat before drinking?” Silence met the question, which was an answer of its own. “Where are your quarters?” Kymin’s brow furrowed but he got out an answer, even in his inebriation. How far that was in relation to the globe, who knew except the sentries? He certainly couldn’t ask Kymin who kept stumbling between talking about everything. Strange tidbits fell out from the man’s brain.

 “You’re odd looking,” Kymin told him, “but not in repulsive way.” Kymin ignored Keith’s sigh. “So many foreign races are too-many-limbed or have too many eyes. You’re naked—which is admittedly quite strange to look at—but your eyes are a dark Galran purple and your glossy hair like space.” A hand landed on Keith’s cheek. Cushy fingerpads pressed into his skin, as though testing the strength of his skin. Kymin’s eyes were gold again, far from the purple tint. “I can see why the Emperor dotes on you. Even with your reluctance to fully embrace the Galra.”

Kymin kissed him, the touch warm and smooth against his lips. It was a chaste kiss, but even still, it took time for the fact to sink in. “Kymin—“

“Don’t make it awkward,” Kymin said. His body pressed against Keith’s, larger and heavier despite Kymin’s own litheness as a Galra. He frowned as his brow furrowed. “And don’t tell the Emperor I did that. I have no interest in his agents turning up at my door.”

“Zarkon doesn’t care like that.” Kymin snorted; the shake made his feet wobble. “Kymin, you’re the one making this very, very weird.” Another kiss, this time against his cheek. A cold nose pressed against his skin; Keith yelped at the sensation, though Kymin burst out into laughter.

“You allow Hyladra to kiss you! Am I not allowed to indulge in a bit of affection?” Keith’s grip loosened on Kymin, who took advantage of it to stagger away, down the hall. He wobbled like a chair with three legs. “I wonder, truly, what you’d be like if you let go. You cloak yourself in worry and chilliness and look out at the world through a frosted pane of glass. Everyone passes by, seeing only a vague shadow, and their lives move on without you.” Kymin leaned against a wall. They were far from the globe, deep into uniform halls. “Every Galra who speaks to you notices. Perhaps your people are private enough to ignore it, but we Galra live in warmer climes. You are a burst of winter wind on this station.”

A drunk cat was dragging him. He wanted to say that Kymin didn’t know him, but wouldn’t that prove his point? “I don’t mean to be,” was what came out instead. “I’m just… not used to this. You’re all so fucking open and touchy feely.”

Kymin staggered towards him and looped an arm around his shoulders. It took effort not to shrug him off. “We are not touchy feely,” Kymin informed him. “We are open, yes, but you’ll hardly find me discussing my feelings on my lovers or my relationship to my parents. What we are is loving. Affectionate. You have to be to survive in the desert. Feuds can easily spell death, and we have never forgotten it. But your people have, it seems. They leave you to your coldness, and then wonder why you do not kiss them.” Keith stared. Kymin frowned. “Or maybe not kiss. Do your people commonly kiss? You seem awkward when kissed. More awkward than usual.”

“Are you,” Keith said, “related to Hyladra?”

“She is from another rank, so she is neither my blood nor my tribe. But she is Galra, and the songs would have her be my sister.” Silence filled the hall. “It is complicated. But my point stands! You are cold. We are warm and wish to remove the chill in your heart.” Kymin rested a hand on Keith’s chest, opposite of where his heart would be. His chest stilled as Kymin’s brow furrowed. “Your heart isn’t there. Where is your heart?” His hand lowered, near to his right kidney. Kymin pressed close. Distress lined his face as his hand lifted to his liver. “Where is it!” Keith took Kymin’s hand and lifted it up and slightly to the left. His heart thumped solidly in his chest. The hand felt warm, especially through the thin cotton clothes. Sharp claws rested lightly over his heart.

“Is that better?” Keith asked.

Kymin shook his head before he pressed an ear against Keith’s chest. Only their closeness stopped Keith from sighing. “It beats too slowly,” Kymin said.

“You’re full of complaints.” Kymin sniffed. “It beats. Isn’t that good enough?” The hand lifted from his chest, though the ear remained. “…I guess not.”

“Every time I get a closer look at you humans, the stranger I find you.” Kymin tilted his head up. Keith looked down into his eyes, which seemed freakishly large now. “I wonder, sometimes, what you must think of us. The rumours—if you’ll excuse me for passing along idle gossip—are that you had never met another people before becoming Paladin.” He finally drew away from Keith’s heart, though his gaze lingered on the area.

“…It’s true.” Keith offered his arm again, only slightly hesitant. “Hadn’t even heard of the Lions before either. But you’ve known about them since you were young, right? Since all cadets were shown to the Red Lion.”

Kymin took his arm. “Not all. Only the best cadets. It was an honour to be given the chance to help the Emperor. But I was presented, as were any decent officers you’ve met.” Like Thace would have been. Like Sendak. “We were told that the Red Lion looked for a strong mind and a certain quintessence. We were never told what that quintessence was, but I’m sure you can imagine that everyone thought they had it.”

“And when they were turned away?”

Kymin’s grip on his arm tightened before smoothing. “Bitterness. Anger. Many fingers were pointed. In my year, one Galra attacked another after accusations of sabotage were thrown around. The target lost an eye. The attacker, his hand. It was an ugly affair, but it wasn’t unusual. Nobody likes being told they’re not good enough, particularly by something so valued by the Emperor.” Kymin sighed. “It was foolishness. Not the Emperor’s hopes, you must understand, but the culture that surrounded it. It’d had millennia to build: when I was a cadet, the best were called Lion’s Bait. Not that the damned machine ever took it.”

Keith wasn’t sure what to say, so he settled on a thoughtful hum. Kymin didn’t need encouragement to speak, though he needed coaxing to keep walking. “People were surprised when we lost it. They were even more surprised that it took on an outsider. But maybe it’d tired of the annual parade. Maybe it wished to spite the Emperor.” Kymin rested his head against Keith’s shoulder. “Watching your simulation work, it could have chosen worse.”

“My quintessence wouldn’t be quite right for it, though.” Their reflection in the hall’s metal was warped. Kymin looked shorter than he was; Keith, meanwhile, looked like he belonged in a fun house. His limbs were too long and bent at odd places. His legs were askew. His face sat at the point where the halls curved up, stretching his face to a ghastly length. He looked away, focusing on the open space ahead. “They told you yours needed to match, right?”

Kymin shrugged. “And they never found a replacement. They were wrong, I’d guess. Quintessence is a funny business besides—it’s not an easy task to find a certain type, and it isn’t to manipulate. If it was, the Druids would be much weaker.”

“They do seem to be pretty big deals. They’re priests of the Voice, right?” That was too transparent—too ignorant for someone who’d been on the station for as long as Keith. He bit back a curse.

But Kymin was drunk. Smashed, really, and so he nodded slowly, blinking through the fog of drink. “We’ve always been able to channel quintessence. Even before the Voice. But Her presence granted us the boon of Druids: masters of energy, conduits of our worship, and enforcers of the Voice’s will. Alone, quintessence manipulation was like whittling stone. It was bashing rock against rock. Under the Voice’s guidance, it became smithery that rivals the finest gold-work, the finest blown glass. It became an art.”

He wanted to press. How did the quintessence donations start? Why were they so prevalent? What would it mean for Keith, who needed someone to bond to? But that’d tip his hand. He didn’t know what Kymin would remember later, and he didn’t want to burn bridges. He wanted to be remembered as helpful and pleasant, not someone taking advantage of a drunk. Even if he was. “I can see why it’s so important, then.”

“You can’t.” Keith blinked. Kymin’s thin smile wasn’t comforting. “Only those part of the Choir can see and understand Her. You may look in, but you have not felt Her presence until you’ve prayed and supplicated yourself.”

“I’ve prayed,” Keith said. “With Hyladra. I—I felt strange but I didn’t see it. I didn’t understand it either. Did I do it wrong?”

Kymin laughed. “It takes more than a murmured prayer to supplicate, Paladin.” They were near Kymin’s quarters now—at least Keith thought they were. A few minutes, and the affair would be over. “And maybe you shouldn’t wish to.”

There was something dark to the Galra’s eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Praise to the Voice,” Kymin said, throaty and low. He broke away from Keith, wobbling in the wind of prayer. “She of a thousand notes, commander of all songs. When we speak, we sing the Chorus and She dreams. Let Her hear us; let our voices feed Her glory.” Kymin smiled. “Don’t repeat it, Paladin, for you will open your mind to stranger things than you can dream of.”

“Kymin—“

“But we’re at my rooms!” The Galra wobbled over to a door. “And you’ve surely worn yourself by shepherding me around. One last kiss as a reward?” Keith’s stiffness made him laugh. “You escape for now, Paladin. Until I am drunk once again—and you are stuck caring for my sodden corpse. Do not think on the things I said. Think of brighter things.” The door closed behind him, leaving Keith to stare at emptiness. Kymin had fled like he’d revealed something he shouldn’t. Or was scared of revealing, Keith thought. _Praise to the Voice, She of a thousand notes, commander of all songs. When we speak, we sing the Chorus and She dreams. Let Her hear us; let our voices feed Her glory_. It was an ominous prayer, a little too odd for Keith’s tastes. But he thought it as he walked away, and the world fuzzed and tilted.

It had to be the alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com, and happy New Year to my Muslim and Jewish readers!


	13. Chapter 13

Keith had been nineteen thirty seconds ago. Clocks hadn’t ticked over. It wasn’t like he had an Earth calendar to mark the day off. Instead, he was twenty by Hyladra’s decree. “You were close to it when you left, weren’t you?” she’d said. “And it’s been some time since you were on Earth! So why not be twenty now?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he said, but if not now, when? How long was a Galran week? He barely knew the science behind Earth time, let alone Galran. His birthday had been a month away-- October 12th-- and he’d had no plans on what to do. It was going to be another day of ferrying goods and studying the caves. Maybe he’d grab a pastry and a small container of ice cream before heading back to the shack. The idea of a party repelled him. There wouldn’t be anyone to visit anyway.

Hyladra stole a slice of furry red fruit. Its waxy skin shielded creamy inner flesh that tasted like heavy honey and apples. “It’s been a month since you arrived. A Galran month, admittedly, but a month. I don’t know the details of your planet to work out a guess in time differences. Frankly, I don’t care to either.”

It was the day Wrin was supposed to meet the rebel representative. But-- “What’s a Galra birthday like?” He cursed his curiosity. He had better things to be preparing for than a cake and presents. “Nevermind--”

“Too late!” Hyladra scraped a chunk of flesh off the rind. “Does that mean you want a traditional celebration?” Red stained her thin lips, which stretched into a smile. “It will take some work to find a sacrificial gheron, but I could probably do it.” She burst out laughing when he gaped. “I’m joking! Don’t look so alarmed. Are you so endeared to gherons from Kymin’s talk?” Her brow furrowed. “Unless the sacrifice is the problem?”

“We don’t do that kind of stuff,” he said, which was wrong. For some people, animal sacrifice was normal, typical, and vital to them. Yet his stomach churned at the thought of a cow being slaughtered for his birthday, even if it was a joke. Even if it was a space cow. “...Some of us do, okay. But I’m not used to that.”

Hyladra cocked her head and frowned. “But you eat meat?”

“I do,” he conceded. “But we keep that kind of stuff separate. It’s not--it’s gross.”

“You kill people,” she told him. It wasn’t accusatory: it was pure confusion. “You fight! You wield a sword! Pardon the confusion, but this seems strange.”

Keith tried to shrug while spreading his hands out helplessly. It turned into a confused mess. “Animals are different? They’re…” What? Innocent? It was a strange arbitration. There were innocent people, and he’d probably managed to kill them in at least one attack. He’d fired the Red Lion’s laser into the station. Inevitably, someone like the librarians that he so liked had been in the crossfire. Had they been innocent? For a conversation about his birthday, things had gotten complex. “What’s a Galra birthday like?”

Hyladra let him escape. “It is a wide affair-- friends, family, lovers, and anyone who desires to visit. Music plays as everyone eats sweetbread, honeymilk, and meats. Family songs are sung, and the head of the family blesses the host-- in this case, the host being the one who’s aged. Guests gift small tokens that can be given to the Druids for blessings and supplications. If the host is the eldest of their family, as in your case, the head of your tribe or rank would do the blessing. The Emperor himself delivers blessings to the eldest lordly tribal leaders: those are always the biggest affairs, which can stretch for days.”

“How common are traditional Galra birthdays? Because they sound expensive and very, uh, time-consuming.”

“Not very,” Hyladra admitted. “Only the most traditional hold them anymore. They were deemed too wasteful a millennia ago. People competed with one another to have the most beautiful singers, the richest food, the brightest and more colourful fireworks, and the most esteemed guests. A natural competition to be sure, but one that offended the Druids as the original purpose of the affair was forgotten.”

“And what was that?” It had to be about the Voice. His lips twitched at Hyladra’s knowing look. “Okay, yeah, I’m not an idiot. So the Druids take tithes and offerings? What kind of things-- are we talking gold and silver, or more ordinary things?”

“Everything,” she said, “from finely-made dolls to freshly harvested food or jewellery. The Voice takes whatever it is given-- but it judges by the giver’s station. If a lady gifted a single fruit, the Voice would look down on the offering. But if a poor wanderer offered the ratty cloak from their back, it would see the true worth in that offering.”

That was scrupulously fair. Oddly fair, for a being that seemed both revered and feared. “That’s kind of the Voice.” Kind was the wrong word, he reflected. The Voice dreamed, hearing the prayers of the Galra. It sang but it didn’t feel active. It didn’t feel like it heard the words so much as the feelings of the Galra. Maybe that was how it judged the offerings-- it judged the loss each Galra felt. “I think a modern birthday would be better.”

“Then food, song, and a small blessing from an esteemed guest.” Hyladra tossed the empty peel on her plate. “I can arrange that. Are there any customs you want from Earth?”

The answer to that was ‘literally everything’. But that required having humans around, like Shiro. He thought of trying to teach the Galra how to sing Happy Birthday. The thought made him uneasy, like that irrelevant bit of of Earth mattered, or was secret. It wasn’t like the Galra would crack encrypted codes with the words. But he already knew they’d smirk and laugh, like it was a silly thing to ask of them, though they’d oblige. “Nothing really,” he said. She smiled, slightly sad, and he shifted in his seat. “...Keep Kymin away from the alcohol? If he shows up.”

Her barking laugh startled him. “So the rumours were true! You saw Kymin drunk. Your story is one of many, I assure you.” Hyladra touched his hand lightly, like a landing breeze, before she returned to her cup of black juice. “Did he discomfort you? You would not be the first he’s gotten handsy with.”

Keith considered it. “I didn’t care for it,” he admitted, “but I don’t need anyone fighting for my honour.”

“Perhaps.” Hyladra’s frown said otherwise. “Either way, I shall remind him of his station-- and his inability to hold his liquor. I promise not to duel him unless he ends up drunk.” She eyed him. “Does that agreement suit you?”

“If it won’t cause a problem.. I don’t want to make things messy for you: you’ve got your job prospects to look out for, and I’m not sure where your rank is in comparison to his.” Keith ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. He looked at her, and in the metal wall behind her chair, he saw feathery puffs of his hair reaching for the sky. Hyladra’s lips twitched as he tried to smooth it.

“He’s a Yexin, yes. In the home system, that would be a problem. But we’re in the Emperor’s army where things like that no longer matter.” She sighed into her drink. “Besides, I am Harim. Below a Yexin, yes, but I am not a kelp farmer or sewage worker. My rank is full of astrologers and sages-- old healers who worked before the Druids. While we’ve lost much glory in their rise, I promise that Kymin has spoken to someone in my tribe for advice.”

Keith stared. “Your parents are astrologers?” A faint flush spread over his cheeks when Hyladra laughed. “I mean… It might be an Earth thing, but we don’t really do astrology where I’m from?” Outside of newspaper columns and silly internet games, he thought. In other places, sure, astrologers were prized. Their predictions mattered. But the idea of a rank devoted to astrologers sounded odd. Especially when the rank was so valued. Which was a rude thing to think, and he’d sounded like a jackass. “I’m sorry--”

Hyladra waved him off. “There are Galra who are contemptuous. Surprise from an outsider isn’t shocking to me. I will say, dearest, that if you ever hear a Galra sneering about Harim-- as you inevitably will-- ask them who decided what beacon point they were born at. Because one of our star charts dictated it.” What was a beacon? He almost asked, but there was something about Hyladra’s words that made it feel raw. It was like she confessed a dirty secret. He filed away the mention of beacons-- familiar, yet as unexplained as the last time he’d heard it-- and left soon after for tutoring.

The tutor was a short girl with narrow eyes and a nervous temper. Her hand traced the various hooks, ticks, and lines that built each symbol of the language. “Each symbol,” she told him, “is a sentence. You start reading from the bottom right and move up, to the left, and then down again. The sentence ends in the symbol’s centre.”

Short directions-- ‘stop’ or ‘power’-- were simple symbols, barren of the small ticks and squiggles that sentences carried. They were characters in the truest sense: there was no hidden alphabet to them. “What was this like before the alphabet was reformed?” he asked as he stared at a sentence. The symbols hurt to look at. They were tight knots that needed to be carefully deconstructed. Even the computer-cleanness of the writing was hard. He couldn’t imagine reading cursive or hand-printed Galran.

“It was purely character-based.” The Galra’s nasal voice shook as she looked at him. It wasn’t alarming. She’d been shaking since Hyladra brought her to the library. “Pure memorization. It would take decades to master the written form and even longer to read at an advanced level. There are legends still about Galra making deals with evil creatures to learn Old Galran.” The tutor laughed, the sound wobbling and frantic. “Thankfully, we won’t need to conjure anything now.”

Her name was Rezya, she worked as a communications officer, and please be nice to her, Keith, she’s very nervous and jittery when it comes to new people. She was scared of him. Not him as a Paladin, but him as a student. If she feared him as a Paladin, she’d never have agreed to tutoring at all. Keith hadn’t realized how nervous, though, until she dropped a tablet pen just through her quivering hands.

“It’s okay,” he told her. She sat beside him, stiff, with her wide eyes glued to the tablet. “You’re doing a good job?” It shouldn’t have been a question.

But the gratitude she shot him alleviated his concerns. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. She sighed. “I’ve taught people before but they’ve all been older Galra who didn’t finish school. Not… whatever you are. A prisoner? A foreign dignitary? I just know the Emperor really likes you and I don’t want to do a bad job.”

“I know more than I already did, and it’s been ten minutes.” His tablet pen scratched over the smooth glass surface, leaving slim black lines in its wake. Years of schooling had left him with delicate writing: tablets were common, as were computers, but Keith preferred the feel of writing. It let him use shorthand, which he appreciated, and the instant nature nature of doodling graphs and arrows helped him organize his thoughts. The worst thing about doing notes on tablets and computers, though, was the grading. Teachers would ask students to send in files of their notes, just to read them. But nobody wanted written notes. Those were, after all, Keith’s only copy, and with his neat hand, it looked so professional and cleanly done. Add in a cryptic shorthand, and nobody spent much time examining his notes. They were easy hundred percents.

An elegant symbol for stop took form. Formed from two pairs of curving intersecting lines, artful squiggles lined the top. It was like waves above a fouled anchor. Or, he thought, a desert storm above a hole dug deep into the earth, with spaces to hide from falling debris. Whatever it was, it looked nice. Writing Galran symbols was drawing art.

“You’ve got a hand for it,” she said. “It took you a minute to draw perfectly, but by the time you’re fluent, it’ll take seconds. You can even start leaving certain flourishes off-- context will let the reader know what you’re saying.”

Written Galran was large. It had to be to fit in all the smaller components. It gave Keith room to make mistakes: his symbols were bigger than average, even for written Galran, but it’d improve, according to Rezya. She released him for lunch. “I need to go back to my post as well.” Her joints cracked when she stood, and she winced. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Could you hit up the lounge afterward?” He shrugged at her raised eyebrows. “I know some soldiers go there. Is it only for high-ranking officers?”

“Partly,” she said. “I’d need to be several rungs higher before the lounges were open to me. There are similar places-- smaller and less luxurious-- so your suggestion does stand. Maybe we can hold a lesson there?”

He agreed. In her absence and the lesson’s ending, the library’s quiet soothed him, turning him drowsy. He should be planning, he knew, but all that he could focus on was doodling symbols and letters. Unlike English, it was soothing to write. Its strange methodical nature appealed to him. Every sentence had to be studiously planned out before execution. If he fucked up, it’d destroy the resulting sentence. And unlike English, crossing something through wouldn’t solve the problem. Strict order and location mattered.

An hour passed in practice. His hand cramped by the end, and he packed up everything, returning all but one of the tablets to the librarians. Wrin would be meeting the rebels in several hours: it was, by his body’s rhythms, late afternoon. When he’d tailed Wrin, it’d been-- what? One in the morning for the station? Not later-- people were still around-- but not early enough to spare people yawns and stretches.

Were there temples to visit? Chapels? He didn’t know what was on the station or what the Voice used. He needed peace, quiet, and a sense of doing something without using the Red Lion’s gift of quintessence. His mind didn’t offer much. He found the nearest training room and buckled down for working out. He didn’t have the clothes for it, but the room was empty and nobody came in, so he tossed off his shirt when he got hot and went from there. It’d been awhile since he’d focused on working out. Mostly it’d been simulations and forms, the practical sort of stuff. Working out, though, was necessary. Particularly running and gymnastics: the forms let him fall into a worn rhythm of kicks and punches, but it didn’t provide the power or speed needed for the moves.

Working out was-- to the misfortune of many-- a boring thing to do. Music could make it tolerable. Friends made it mildly entertaining. But neither were present-- at least in their usual forms. The workout room had Galran music, with its high singing voices, atonal composition, and heavy drum beat. The lyrics came quick and slurred together, but he recognized words. It was a love song between a poor girl and her soldier boyfriend, and how galaxies separated them. Familiar in content-- not so much form. If he paid attention for too long, his head began to hurt from the chaos. The instruments flittered about as they pleased, with seemingly little care for what the others did, while the voice warbled and creaked under the high notes. The more he listened, the bigger the headache got; yet the more he listened, the more he was able to discern a centre to the cacophony, one that told a story he couldn’t quite grasp.

He went through menial tasks after that-- eating, bathing, forms, and brushing his teeth. It numbed his mind’s worry. Things were going to get ugly. It was inevitable. Wrin wasn’t going to refuse: he was too angry and bitter for that. And Wrin hadn’t told Thace, otherwise Thace would have warned Keith. He hoped.

What would the rebels ask of Wrin? An attack on Keith, obviously, but there had to be something more to it. If they just wanted him dead, they could hunt and catch him in one of the many halls he roamed through. They wanted something more public-- something like their probable attempt in the showers. They wanted to make a statement. Keith suspected they’d sell it to Wrin as a secret killing, but they’d leak recordings or leave evidence. Wrin’s cause would be compelling to the average Galra or-- at least-- embarrass Zarkon.

There was a good case to be made for Keith telling Zarkon what he knew. Letting someone attack him was a bad idea. They just needed to get lucky and Keith would die. But through Wrin, he could see Zarkon’s weaknesses close up. He could manipulate them, in the best case scenario. If he sowed discord-- or found out a general attack-- the chaos opened up time for an escape. He doubted anything on such a scale would happen soon, but if it did happen, he wanted to know about it. Then there were the Holts. If this group was where the traitors spawned from, he’d be able to bargain for their release. Would Zarkon go back on his word? Who knew. But Keith could hope.

Hyladra was strangely smug at dinner. Over a thick soup that she swirled milk into, she smirked and waggled her eyebrows. “Tomorrow,” she told him, “there’s going to be a little party in the sim room you visit. Meet me here for dinner, but do not fetch anything from the cafeteria. I will be disappointed if you ruin your appetite.”

“Yes, mom,” he said. Hyladra laughed and spooned in a dollop of sauce into the soup. The soup looked strange-- red and white and an electric blue-- and he wondered what it tasted like. He didn’t dare touch it, though: some things were better left alone.

When they parted, Hyladra kissed his cheek and told him the soup was an acquired taste. “It’s for the best you didn’t steal some, though I will miss the faces you would have made.” Her eyes glinted. “Maybe for your little birthday dinner I’ll get some.”

“I make no promises.” What foods were going to be laid out? He knew everyone would expect him to have a bit of everything. The Galra derived a bizarre joy from seeing him try their food. He’d never thought himself expressive, but when he ate the odder Galran foods, those at his table tittered and giggled and-- in Elin’s case, while he was digging through a gamey rodent creature that tasted slightly fishy as well-- burst into a fit of laughter. She’d looked as surprised as he felt when he stared at her.

In the absence of anything else to do, he found the closest lounge to the meeting spot. It’d taken some figuring out to determine where Wrin’s meeting had happened: asking too much from the sentries might get him flagged, and it wasn’t like he could ask any Galra about the location. So he’d wandered the halls and used his fuzzy memory to find the location. On his way to the lounge, he passed through the location and noted the Galran printed on the doors.

The earlier lesson was a boon. Rezya had covered the alphabet-- a series of three dozen markings-- and numbers which were made of fifteen symbols. A set for zero to nine, and the last five to mark hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, and-- he hadn’t seen it yet-- trillions. “You won’t need that any time soon,” Rezya told him. He agreed. All he needed for Central Command doors were the marks up to a thousand.

The room he’d hid in was Gev-Fyra-Bim #2540. He’d made a show of examining other doors as he went, letting any spies think he was simply curious. When he arrived at the lounge, it was nothing like the glory of Kymin’s. But it was pleasant. It had the same glass walls and floors, though the furniture was less expensive. He curled up in a small chair tucked between a pair of gaping purple plants and a menu in hand. He couldn’t read the menu, but a passing waiter was kind enough to bring him small bits of snack food. Dried meats, berries, and crispy, warm bread landed on his side table. Non-alcoholic drinks were brought with only a token protest that they had the best bartender, really, and that bartender may have been the waiter, who knew?

When people flooded into the lounge, he marked their appearances between focused meditation and practicing his recognition of Galran. Rezya had programmed a flash card program-- a simple one identifying things like cups, leaves, and pieces of clothing. Some of the clothes he didn’t recognize: what was that cape-like swathe of cloth that wrapped around the forearms of the Galra? It was a dvej. Whatever that meant.

When the wave of people began to recede, Keith took it as a cue to follow. He asked the time from a nearby sentry, and received a time he didn’t quite recognize. His question-- is it late?-- got an affirmative. So he walked the halls, noting the passing doors. When he reached his desired one, he ducked into a nearby room. The door was half-open, though a long table and series of chairs hid Keith from immediate view. He tucked himself between the wall and a plush black chair; he dimmed the tablet’s light settings as he kept working through the flashcards. The tablet’s upper left hand clock ticked away. He could read the numbers, though they made little sense. Thirty-seven qxi and one hundred and three tinek. What did those mean? Hours and minutes? The time scale was so far off from anything he recognized. One day he’d learn, but he had smaller things to concern himself with. There were three dozen types of fish in the flashcards. They had some ritual importance, he supposed, or the Galra were really like big cats.

The differences between the fish were interesting to note, but not as spellbinding as he’d hoped. When he heard footsteps, he perked up. The first three times, nobody stopped. The fourth, his eyelids were beginning to droop. He forced back a yawn as a slow, measured walk passed.

“He best not be late again,” the man from the first meeting muttered. He flopped against the wall outside, away from Keith’s hiding place. Keith switched the tablet off, too paranoid to let even its small light stay. Time passed. More footsteps appeared. The man sighed. “Wrin. I won’t congratulate you on timing.”

Wrin audibly shifted. “My shift ran late.”

“Did it?” The man pushed off the wall, the sound of his claws against the metal clear. “Or were you having second thoughts?” Keith slowed his breathing, so as not to fill the gaping silence. “You didn’t contact anyone, though.”

“I--” Wrin paced. The steps were loud in the eerie silence. “He needs to die. He doesn’t belong here; he’s not Galra, and he’s an enemy.”

“But?” Wrin was silent. “What stops you from your righteous goal, Wrin?”

“People like him.” Wrin sighed, though Keith doubted he realized it. “I don’t know why, but they do. I’ll burn bridges I can’t fix if I kill him.”

“Are they bridges you wish to keep? Or ones you feel are the few you have? Even more, you assume they’ll find you out.”

Wrin laughed. “I’m not a fool. I don’t know your name, Clarion. You people will arm me, but what happens after that is my business, isn’t it?”

The Clarion didn’t deny it. “Things will change. You will be part of the purging. There will be no tragedy after this, Wrin. Those who poison with their weakness you will die. Those who love you will forgive.”

“You paint the lines of good and bad so clearly. I wish I could do the same.” Keith’s leg cramped, but he refused to move. Wrin kept talking. “But I want him dead. Is there-- can you protect me? From others ever knowing?”

“If you do it right,” the Clarion said, “nobody will ever know. Your life will continue on without your enemy, and your friends and family will think you a light. When the Empire is purged, you can be crowned one of the heroes. And if you abandon the cause, you’ll be forgotten. Your enemy will live until braver Galra finish him, and your loved ones will receive no protection.”

“What do I do, then? Do I stab him in the night? Attack him in his cell?” Wrin returned to pacing. “I can’t beat him in a fair fight. I-- I’m not strong enough.”

“There is honour in combat,” the Clarion said. “But there’s more honour in winning. I can provide you a bomb, but I must ask two things of you, Wrin.” Wrin must have nodded, because the man kept speaking. “This must be public. The abomination is surrounded by weak Galra-- hanger-ons that court Zarkon’s favour. If this is to be the start of anything, you must purge the Chorus. They are planning a party.”

Wrin seemed to take a moment to digest what was being said. “Who’s going?” Keith choked on a curse. Hatred bubbled in his stomach. Wrin was going to kill people like Hyladra and Elin, all so that he could get at Keith. For this mad rebel group.

“Degenerates,” the Clarion said. “I believe you know some of them. Hyladra, Elin, Rezya, Kymin, Hetta-- a few of two dozen that we know of. That you know of. Tell me, have any of them been friends to you? Or have they turned you away, like you were the abomination?”

Abomination. What a thing to call people. But there was something in common: it referred to Keith, an outsider, and Wrin, who was a stranger to his own people. To be outside the Chorus-- the Galra-- was to be an abomination. Keith’s hands shook. He pressed them down, against his thighs.

“I’m nothing to them.” The ragged words carried fresh blood. But Keith knew Hyladra-- he knew the others. They would never hurt someone who was kind. Not on purpose. “...Where and when is the party?”

“Tomorrow during dinner, at the abomination’s favourite simulation room. Dozens will be there. All deserve death. When you do it, Wrin, it will be up to you to shield yourself from scrutiny. There are many who would kill those at the party: a hint of cleverness will allow you protection.” Metal clinked against metal. “If you succeed, meet me here again in a week. If you fail, you will be on your own until the Empire is cleansed. If you turn to a coward, you will be exterminated. Either way: you do not know me, and you will never say who contacted you.” Footsteps led away. It left Wrin to curse.

And it left Keith to his thoughts. Wrin was going to bomb the party. Everyone he knew was going to be there. The bomb would take out the glass-- he knew Hyladra’s favourite place there, and it was near the window. How many other people would be there on an average day? They’d have nothing to do with Keith, but they’d be marked for death anyway. All because someone had died in a war.

His nails dug into his palms. He could warn people-- tell them an attack was threatened, and not to go. But that would simply move the execution date: Wrin wait for another time, another group, and he’d set the bomb off then. It was inevitable that he’d find Keith with people. And if he couldn’t get everyone, there was always the cell.

Telling Zarkon was an option. It may close the only out Keith had, but it’d protect everyone involved. Wrin would die, of course, but Keith was fairly certain the Galra had signed away his right to life when he took the bomb. It’d be messy, though. It’d be an abomination’s word against a grieving Galra. He didn’t doubt that Zarkon would side with him, but what would others think? Wrin would hide the bomb, and they might not find it. Even those who liked Keith-- Kymin or Rezya or whoever else-- might think it a bit much to trust an outsider. Those who didn’t like or know Keith might be coaxed closer to the rebels. “Fuck,” he breathed. Footsteps were leading away from Keith’s room.

He made a choice. HIs soft shoes whispered over the metal floor. He tailed Wrin from a distance-- from around corners and behind sentries. The cameras watched, he knew, but maybe the rebel group wouldn’t check them and catch him. If they did, it was out of his hands anyway. Wrin walked through empty halls, his back tense. He muttered to himself, though Keith didn’t catch the words.

They crossed into an empty hallway. There were no visible sentries. Wrin stopped by a window. “I miss you,” Wrin said, though Keith focused more on the glass’ reflection. It’d be a problem for sneaking up on him. Keith could wait longer, but if Wrin was around people, Keith didn’t put it past him to take them out with him when confronted.

Wrin kept talking to himself as Keith slunk free from around the corner. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but they have to pay. You’d understand, right? You hated outsiders.” Wrin banged his fist against the reinforced glass. “Fuck.” He swore he heard the bomb’s quiet beeps.

Keith glanced down each end of the hall. Nobody was there, so he prowled out, stopping a distance from the glass. “Whoever your brother was,” Keith said, “I doubt he’d be a fan of what’s in your pocket.”

Wrin jerked around to snarl at him. “Says you, the abomination who killed him!” Wrin looked down either ends of the hall. Finding no one, he turned back to Keith. “And what are you going to do now? Kill me? Or are you going to drag me to the Emperor and declare me the traitor? So many Galra fawn over you; I’m sure they’ll turn on their kin.”

“They’ll write this off as a mistake if you hand over the bomb. You detonate it? You kill Galra? And they’ll never forgive you.” Wrin shook his head, but Keith took the opportunity to slip closer. “If you want me dead, you can fight me. But leave the others alone.”

“You pretend at kindness so well.” Wrin reached into his belt pocket and pulled out an orb that fit neatly into his palm. Its lights flickered. “They deserve to die, though. Do you think that it is natural for them to embrace an outsider like they have? Would your people have done the same to an alien enemy?”

Keith shifted, his arms at his sides and his body ready to lunge away from a quick attack. “Are you saying your people should compete with outsiders? The Galra should exceed what humanity would do. Otherwise, where is your superiority?”

“Slippery,” Wrin said darkly. “But you admit your people would shun a Galra. Yet here you wandert, tainting minds and singing a siren song that leads to corruption.”

“You sound less like yourself,” Keith said, “and more like that man you met. I remember your threats, Wrin, and they weren’t from a bigot. They were from someone who’s grieving. That bomb, though. That bomb will take this from a mistake to an atrocity. I’m not saying you have no right to hate me--” Wrin snorted, but Keith pressed on. “I’m not saying you should like me. I’m saying you shouldn’t kill others for a cause you don’t even believe in.”

Wrin stepped forward. His fingers twitched and undulated as the bomb circled his fingers, ducking and weaving between the clawed appendages. “Maybe,” Wrin said, “you’re right.” He eyed Keith up and down and gave an unhappy smile. “Just us two, then.”

Keith didn’t even have time to squawk out a question. Wrin tapped a button on the bomb and threw it. Keith charged: he snatched the bomb mid-air, and kept going. An ugly wheeze burst out of Wrin when Keith slammed into him. Wrin’s thin chest creaked under Keith’s wait as he sat on top of him, clutching the bomb. If it went off, he doubted the hall’s glass would withstand the explosion. Both he and Wrin would be sucked out into the vacuum. They’d be dead before anyone noticed.

“Did you think you could run?” Keith held the orb in his hand as Wrin struggled, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. Keith bared his teeth. “Tell it me how to turn it off.”

“I don’t know!” Wrin thrashed. “I didn’t have time to figure that out--” Keith’s hissed pathetic made Wrin snarl.

He needed to defuse the bomb. He knew nothing about Galran bombs or Galran countdowns. He didn’t even have his tablet to decode things with: in his run, he’d dropped it. Wrin thrashed beneath him, his words crumbling to a begging gibberish to let him free. They had seconds.

Beside the window, a garbage disposal’s lip drooped free. Keith lunged off Wrin, who tried to skitter away, his claws scraping at the floor. He opened the disposal, dropped the bomb, and slammed the mouth closed. A half dozen buttons were above the mouth: which were white? He recognized two of them: power and off. But the rest were unfamiliar. Keith stared at the buttons. If he launched the bomb into space, it wouldn’t work. But if it went to the bowels of the ship, it might kill people or rip open the station somewhere else. Yet throwing it into the interior halls nearby had been too far, and even if he’d made it, who knew who was in them until it was too late?

He slapped the on button. Lights blinked to life. There were four other buttons: he chose the symbol with an open left, like a mouth eating something, just because it was the least worn button. How often would people space their garbage, after all? If it went into space at all. The bomb beeped as the disposal opening was suctioned tightly closed. Keith staggered back. Wrin was long gone. He held his breath as seconds ticked away. When the bomb floated by the window, its lights dead, he sagged in relief. The suction had peeled parts away; the vacuum finished the rest.

Keith tore after Wrin. In the Galra’s panic, he’d stumbled and tripped over his own feet. It slowed him. Sentries watched them pass, unaware of what had almost happened. Adrenaline pushed Keith faster and faster. His cloth shoes were bottomed by a tight, black grip. It made lunging at Wrin near a darkened corner much easier.

“Help!” Wrin shouted. Keith wrapped his fingers around Wrin’s throat, pinching his windpipe closed. He wheezed under Keith. “Please--”

“You’re not going to scream.” Wrin’s wide eyes were wild. “You’re going to come with me, and we’re going to talk to Thace. You try anything like that again, and I will beat you black and blue. Remember: you to know that you brought this on yourself.” He loosened his grip on Wrin’s neck, just to hear the reply.

“You have no proof,” Wrin hissed. “Everything’s gone. You destroyed it! And you’ll go to a man who hates you to accuse his protege of murder.”

“Not every camera was put out by your buddies.” Keith smiled thinly. “You’re lucky I’m not going to Zarkon, Wrin. At least Thace will listen to you.”

“I was undercover, and you threatened me!” Wrin’s whine gave his game away. “They’ll--”

“Stop lying,” Keith said. He reached down and removed Wrin’s utility belt. The Galra struggled, but Keith was heavy enough to keep him down. Inside the belt, items shifted and clinked. Keith hooked it over his shoulder. He didn’t doubt there were small knives and whatever else in there. “I’m going to let you up. You run, I tell Zarkon. You follow my lead? And you get to see Thace. Your choice.” Keith stood and pulled away, leaving a few feet between them.

Wrin rolled on to his stomach. “This isn’t over.” It sounded weak, his defiance withered by failure. “Dyca bmn, Krakor.”

Keith figured it was ‘fuck you, Paladin’. He was more concerned with his faltering Galran. Keith grabbed Wrin by the uniform shirt’s back and yanked him up. In lieu of language, he pushed Wrin ahead. Galran would-- hopefully-- return as it had so far. Then he could finish this, whether or not Wrin died, whether or not Thace believed him.

So far, though, everyone owed him as far as he was concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to Canadian readers!


	14. Chapter 14

There were too many halls in Central Command. He discovered this as he wandered them, hoping to avoid passerby and probing questions. His Galran abilities needed to come back. Without them, he couldn’t understand Wrin’s mutterings or ask for directions. He thought about miming something, but how did he mime the name Thace? People would realize he couldn’t speak Galran anyway.

So he bought time. He listened to Wrin’s mutterings and his mind snatched at familiar or misheard words. Wrin’s voice pleaded; other times, it snarled. When Wrin got too aggressive, Keith turned him around and stared him down. Wrin always went silent, his eyes averted.

It had to come back. He didn’t have a choice on this. It needed to come back before things got worse. Every corner he turned, he feared seeing another Galra: Wrin could weave whatever story he pleased to them, and Keith didn’t doubt he’d star as the villain. “Krakor!” Wrin snapped. “Krakor, crik gar sij.”

That’s nice, he thought. He bit back the impulse to say it. Wrin jerked in his grasp, but Keith’s hands clamped on to his arms, keeping them pinned behind Wrin’s back. “Ysi,” Keith snapped. Wrin froze, as though startled. It had to be the right word, though. He’d memorized it from Rezya’s lessons. They passed through a hall with a scattered few sentries. Keith’s grip didn’t loosen.

He couldn’t tell when the Galran came back. Wrin took his time before speaking again, and it wasn’t like the halls were full of chatter. He realized the return when Wrin stumbled. “Fuck!” Wrin said, and the tension in Keith’s body eased. “You’re going to break my hand--”

“If your bones break,” Keith said, “you have bigger problems than me.” His walk smoothed. The next sentry he saw, he called out. “Thace, officer. I have something to report to him about Wrin.” If Thace was asleep, what other choices were available? He could trap Wrin in his cell’s bathroom. How he’d explain to people would be a bit awkward. But he didn’t want to hand over Wrin to Zarkon without at least giving Thace a chance to care for his protege. He knew it was what Shiro would do.

The sentry whirred in silence. “More detail required for approval,” it returned. Keith nudged Wrin. Wrin shot a vicious look over his shoulder. But Keith dug his thumb into the soft part of his wrist, and Wrin spoke.

“Thace, it’s me,” Wrin said, voice rough.

The sentry’s lights flickered. “...Approval granted.” Keith recognized the numbers and letters not at all as English, but purely in their Galran nature. He savoured that fact as he hustled Wrin through the halls to the first elevator he saw. They landed on the officers’ floor-- in a quiet wing, with barely anyone around. Those who walked the halls took one look at Keith and Wrin and studiously ignored them. Did they think it a boyish squabble? Or was it the determination to cling to their time off? It worked for him, either way.

Thace’s door was the same size as the rest, though the wide space between his and other officers hinted at a spacious inside. Keith pushed Wrin against the door as he slapped the keypad. When it didn’t blink or make a sound, he banged the door. “He’s never going to believe you,” Wrin snapped. “This is pointless-- he hates you!”

“Do you do anything other than whine?” Keith twisted Wrin’s hands tighter.. “Other than try to murder people.” Wrin tried to buck Keith off. Keith ignored it to bang on the door again. “Thace!”

The door opened. Wrin crashed down on to his face. Thace stared down at him, his eyebrows knitted together. “What--?”

“He tried to kill me,” Wrin said, scrambling for his feet. “He tried to stab me and then he said he’s going to-- to turn on me!”

Keith kicked him in the leg. “He was talking to the Clarions.” Thace hissed. “We need to do this in private.”

“We do,” Thace agreed. Wrin tried to duck away when on his feet, but Thace snatched his collar and yanked him in. Keith followed after taking one last look down the hall. Nobody saw them, though that didn’t mean the cameras didn’t.

Wrin ended up by a couch with no backing-- perfect for sprawling on. Glass abounded, as did fish behind their confines. The lights were dim, and spotlights rested on the couch. Wrin ignored it in favour of pointing a single finger at Keith. “He choked me!”

“True,” Keith conceded. “But only after you tried to kill me with a bomb.”

Wrin’s indignant protest didn’t help Thace’s visible exhaustion. “He knows about the Clarions, Wrin. Are you saying someone set you up through the Paladin?”

“Yes.” Keith snorted, but Wrin pressed on. “I didn’t do anything: the Paladin attacked me out of nowhere and started babbling about the Clarions. He’s bitter about being turned away from you, so he’s taking it out on me.”

“Bullshit and bullshit.” Keith folded his arms in front of him. Thace met his eyes. “I found him meeting a rebel group. Because I’m not an idiot who trusts people who threaten me--” and here he glared at Wrin-- “I spied. They told him to bomb my birthday party. Even gave him a device to do it. When I confronted him, he decided it’d be awesome to bomb the fucking hallway. If you want to see what happened, I bet there are cameras!” He leaned close to Wrin. “Cameras, dude. It doesn’t matter what you say. But keep saying I’m out to get you. We all know it’s the other way around.”

Wrin didn’t reply. Instead, he stared at the floor. Keith thought about needling him, but what was the point? The story was out. And yet: “Is this true, Wrin?” Thace’s ragged voice had forgotten exhaustion. Now it just carried pain.

Keith said nothing: he watched Wrin’s face change from stubborn denial to a drooping sulk and then to something tired and dark. “I didn’t want to.” The words were cold, familiar to Keith in their chill. “But vengeance is in our blood, isn’t it? That’s why we needed the Voice. And he’s-- he’s an outsider. What would his blood matter when it stained my hands?”

“That’s not how it works.” Thace stepped close to Wrin, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Wrin, you were going to kill Galra.” Thace glanced up to meet Keith’s eyes. There was something unreadable to Thace’s eyes. “And the Paladin deserves an honourable death, if the Emperor ever orders his execution. It was not your decision to make.” He pulled back and turned away. “Your brother died on a battlefield. The rest of us can only hope to be so lucky.”

It wasn’t what Keith wanted. He’d wanted anger, outrage, even a bit of bitterness and regret. But Thace was too measured, like Wrin hadn’t been about to slaughter people. Was Thace that warped by the Empire’s culture? He’d thought Thace was a calm, logical man. But when he looked into Thace’s face, he wasn’t sure what he saw anymore. He looked away as Wrin began to shake from muffled sobs.

He wasn’t vindictive enough to regret bringing Wrin to Thace. Wrin had planned something awful, but the idea of having Wrin lined up for execution brought no pleasure. Keith stared at fish and other water creatures in the glass wall tank, studiously ignoring Thace’s comforting. Wrin’s accusation of outsider was too close.

After a time, the sobs grew quiet. Keith bit back a scorching comment. Wrin deserved it, but he’d tired of watching fish. “We can’t hide this,” Thace said finally. “The cameras-- they recorded this?”

Keith spoke. “They’d be too far for the Clarions to have turned them off.” He turned to look at them. Wrin huddled on the open couch as Thace stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “But I’m more concerned that people are trying to kill my--” not friends, not friends, but what else were they? “...Other Galra. Hyladra is a target. That’s why Wrin was going to bomb the party.” He refused to spare Wrin the truth of what he’d contemplated.

Thace didn’t seem to begrudge him the bluntness, at least. “You can’t meet with them, then. It sets up too good a target.”

“You say that,” Keith said, “like it’d be easy to keep Hyladra away without her determining something was wrong. Or that I’d fully trust my safety to you and my almost-murderer.”

“I’m not your enemy--”

“Aren’t you? Your little protege just met with a terrorist cell. You treated him like a crying child.” Well, Keith thought, so much for the lack of bitterness. The words kept tumbling out, arch and harsh. “If I’d been seconds slower, I’d be dead. And if you try to excuse this as grieving, I’ll remind you that Wrin is a soldier and a Galra. Isn’t there no greater honour than dying on a battlefield?”

Wrin tensed as Keith eyed him. Thace stiffened. “I understand your anger, Paladin, but grief is poisonous. I don’t ask you to forgive him, but understand that he is my nephew. I have responsibilities to him.”

_I don’t have a responsibility to you_ was the darker side of that statement. He’d thought better of Thace, once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. _You just have_ , whispered a voice. He ignored it. “Whatever.” That was petulant, and Thace’s frown showed he recognized that. “Where does this leave Wrin? Or me, for that matter? They gave him a deadline and a target. If he doesn’t kill me tomorrow, they’re going to ask questions and they might send someone after the pair of us.” Keith frowned. “They have the same access to the computers as we do. Unless you want to involve Zarkon?”

“No,” Thace said. “The Emperor is fair but strict on traitors.” His grip on Wrin’s shoulder tightened. “If we do not provide anything notable before talking to him, he will feel a need to scourge his military of traitors.” Including Wrin went unsaid.

“You want-- what? The leader? Maybe information on all the cells? That’s nice, but I’ll leave you to it.” Keith would never be able to infiltrate anything Galra. He was a walking, talking zoo exhibit. His shirt’s cotton material whispered as he tucked his hands into his pockets. He watched them as he sidled to the door. “Let me know if you find any more attacks planned on my life! Because I’ve certainly had enough already--”

“You couldn’t speak Galran,” Wrin said. Keith froze. “Thace, one moment he was fluent, and the next he couldn’t understand a thing. I talked to him for what had to be a dozen tinek. Not a word. No reaction except blank looks.”

Keith twisted around to find Thace wide-eyed. He had to know what that meant. “Shut the fuck up,” Keith snapped.

Wrin’s bright eyes were almost gleeful. “There’s something wrong with him. He’s sick. He’s weak. This is a little secret of yours, isn’t it?” Thace dug his claws into Wrin’s shoulder. Wrin hissed in pain.

“Is this true?” Thace’s gaze picked Keith apart, searching for a sign of weakness. “Don’t lie to me, Keith.”

“He’s lying,” Keith said, “but you wouldn’t deserve the honesty in the first place. Take it as a favour.”

“I’ll tell people,” Wrin said. “Thace won’t be able to stop me.” The tears were gone, and a mania had replaced them. “You need to help.”

Keith sneered. “I brought you here. What else do you want?”

“I need--” Wrin shrugged off Thace’s touch. “You’re the only one who can watch the Emperor. You’re-- your presence gets you places.” Wrin’s rat-like face held a look of determination. “I hate you. I won’t deny it. But you need my help too.”

Ice strangled him. “I don’t want your memories.” Keith didn’t even pretend to be calm. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I brought you here to wipe my hands of your bullshit: you’re Thace’s problem now.”

“Then you’ll lose the ability to speak Galran, and whatever else this is tied to.” Wrin laughed, jagged as broken glass. “You said you didn’t want my memories. Tell me, is this about quintessence? Because I know more about that than you ever will.”

He’d fucked up. One sentence, and the entire pretense collapsed. Keith balled his hands. “He’s crude, but not wrong,” Thace said. “I don’t know the… details of the Lions. Not like the Emperor or Haggar. But you told me that you were sick from the Red Lion’s bond.” Thace glanced down at Wrin. “He has connections among medics, even a few Druids. I myself can provide basic treatment.”

“I don’t need help.” Keith reached up to hit the keypad and indulge in some well-earned storming out, but the pad didn’t respond. Another whack and the doors remained closed. “Thace--”

“You deserve better than threats, but you need to be reasonable, Keith. I’m sure that-- whatever it is-- it can be worked through with some help from our contacts.” Thace broke away from Wrin to stand close to Keith, who let his back press against the door. “It’s got something to do with quintessence, and you need infusions.” Thoughtfulness transformed Thace’s face, making it look younger. “Memories of Galran to preserve your abilities? And you’ve been hiding it.”

“No shit.” Keith’s voice was ragged. “So things like this didn’t happen. Are you going to let him threaten me for being sick too?”

Something sharpened in Thace’s eyes. “No. But you are being unwise if you think you can find someone aboard this ship without an agenda. Even Hyladra will have motives, Keith, and you know that.” Because he hadn’t gone to her, hadn’t even mentioned it. He’d continued on like nothing was wrong. “Take this as an opportunity: you know what Wrin is after, and I will ensure he does you no harm.”

“You’d be reactive,” Keith said. “He’ll have already broke something by the time you find out.” Keith stared past Thace, focused on Wrin. “What guarantee do I have that he won’t backstab me? What if he goes back to the Clarions? I don’t know what a bond could do.”

“Bonds can be broken.” Keith blinked at that. “If he ever harms you, I will have Haggar herself break the bond. And if he turns back to the Clarions, he will be killed.” Thace didn’t even look at Wrin. “I don’t know who your contact is on this, but we can talk to them. There has to be a contingency for this.”

“I don’t know if they’ll want to talk to you.” Thace frowned and Keith shrugged, looking away from the man. “It’s-- I can’t speak for them.” He didn’t want to decide yet. There was too much happening-- too much all at once. “They’ve got things to keep private.” Could he trust Thace? He didn’t know anything about the man. Maybe he was a Clarion. Maybe he was after something-- favour, an advantage over Zarkon, or information on the Lions and their Paladins. Wrin would have access to that, wouldn’t he? He’d get glimpses into Keith’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop that. “I need time.”

“We have little of that to spare,” Thace said. “But you can use one of the sentries nearby to contact them, or perhaps my own terminal, if you’re comfortable with that?”

“Not really.” Thace pulled away, though, finally acknowledging Keith’s discomfort. Wrin came back into view. Their eyes met. Nothing close to understanding passed between them. “You could track my communications.”

“I can do that already,” Thace said. “I am the leading officer for computer information on Central Command. If I wished to find out anything on your whereabouts and doings, I could find it. But I have no desire to compromise your feeling of privacy.”

Asshole. It was a reminder of Thace’s power: if Keith didn’t play nice, he didn’t know what Thace could do. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that, though. Maybe it was an acknowledgement of the reality in their situation. But it was hard to tell when he didn’t know the man, and when his experiences had been unpleasant at best. He forced back the impulse to snap at Thace. “I don’t want you in the room for this.”

“And you won’t have us near,” Thace said. “While I refuse to leave my own quarters, there are other rooms. The doors are thick enough that we won’t hear your conversation. Shall I show you how to turn the terminal on?”

Keith had spent hours trying to figure out how to turn on the terminals. The one in his room had never been on unless someone remotely activated it-- like when Zarkon contacted him. It turned out that the terminal was activated by pressing a hand to the screen. The glass warmed to Keith’s touch. The projection flickered to life, its lights turned almost-rainbow at the start. Galran solidified on it. Thace tapped an icon and a window burst into being in the projection’s centre. “Simply give it a name, and it’ll find your contact. End the call by hitting the round, dipping semi-circle.”

When they left-- for another room that looked like a study of some sort-- Keith crept close to the door and pressed his ear against it. He heard nothing. Retreating to the terminal, he wasted a minute on back and forth. If he called, Volux was going to be angry. Not that they were ever truly friendly, but he could only imagine how awkward a spot he’d put the Druid in.

“Contact Druid Volux,” Keith said. “Message from Thace.” Not him-- that’d show in the records, and Keith didn’t doubt that others were monitoring messages from him. He shifted from foot to foot as he waited. The program didn’t ring or beep or even flash-- at least that his human ears and eyes could detect. Only Volux’s smooth voice let him know the call connected.

“Thace,” they drawled. “What a pleasure to hear from you. Though I didn’t think you’d come back so soon!” Keith blinked. They knew each other? Keith had been relying on Thace’s rank as an officer for Volux to pick up. “Do you have news from the Palace?”

What was the Palace? But he couldn’t ignore the question. “It’s not Thace.” Volux choked on the other end. “Uh-- things have sort of happened. There are Clarions on the station? And Wrin tried to kill me.”

A video window popped up. Volux was maskless and dressed in the same loose clothes that Keith wore. They looked shockingly normal. Behind them, he spotted a tray of food on the table. “What,” Volux said, “is going on. From the beginning, Paladin.”

Keith told him. Volux slouched more and more as he went on. Muttered curses were unintelligible, but Volux’s frustration was not. “You should have brought him to the Emperor,” Volux said.

“That would have burned more bridges than I want to.” Keith ran a hand through his hair, thinking. The strands were getting long-- long enough for a trim or a hairstyle change. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Keith didn’t doubt Thace would have had something to say if Wrin died. And he couldn’t judge if it would have ended in something truly vicious or not. It wasn’t a risk he was interested in. “I’m more concerned about what we do with Wrin now. He’s talking about being the quintessence donor in exchange for me not spilling to Zarkon.”

“And what about me?” Volux asked. “You’ve dragged me into this.”

“You spoke to someone you thought was Thace like he was a friend.” Keith eyed Volux. “Do you want to burn that bridge? Think about it this way, Volux: you’ll impress Thace, and you’ll be able to take some credit for hunting the Clarions. Whoever they are, other than terrorists.”

“They’re Voice supremacists. Their goal is the destruction of the Druids-- of people like me-- in the hopes that they can access the Voice more directly.” Volux leaned back in their chair, their arms crossed as they frowned. “Social ranks should define the Galra once more in their little scheme. Of course, those who support the Clarions will have their ranks enhanced for their service. It attracts fanatics, martyrs, and the lost, as well as rank supremacists.”

“They wouldn’t like Zarkon either, then.” Keith frowned. “How did they get on Central Command? I’ve always thought this was the place for the top Galra in the military.”  
‘  
“It is,” Volux said, “but the best in the military don’t have to be the cleverest or kindest. It’s not unusual for purges to happen in other outposts, though Central Command’s last purge was decades ago.” Volux shook their head. Their loose clothes flopped with the motion. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Wrin took the bait, but then grief makes us mad. I don’t think his plan for a bonding is the best idea. An hour ago, he was anguished enough to murder you.” Volux focused on the terminal’s keyboard, their expression turning angry. “The things he could do with the bond would be dangerous. Thace’s ignorance on the subject of bonds betrays him.”

“Couldn’t he be a simple donor?” Volux looked up. “The bond would stabilize everything, sure, but I’m losing more and more of my ability to speak Galran.”

“He could be a donor,” Volux allowed. “But it’d only alleviate some of the symptoms, not cure them. You’re used to a constant flow of extra quintessence. At best, it’d increase your ability to speak Galran. You’d still need doses of extra quintessence to deal with the withdrawal, and you may experience difficulties when you change donors. Then there is the issue of his memories and his own moodiness. What if he refuses to donate? What happens when you receive a random assortment of memories through the donation? At least with a bond, the memories can be controlled to an extent.”

None of this was good. “How painful would the withdrawal be?”

“Depending on the length of treatment and the quantity, it could be anything from a slight fever to seizures and death.” Volux pursed their lips. “I know the limits, of course. I’d monitor you. But this is risky, and I’ll only do it if I receive proof that Wrin is willing to turn against the Clarions.”

“Do you want your name attached to this yet? I’m guessing not.”

“You’re quite right about that,” Volux said. Their ears twitched. “What is Thace’s guarantee that Wrin won’t turn on us? Surely he provided something.”

“Nothing yet.” Keith wanted to sleep for a thousand years and wake up to Shiro’s gentle laugh. That would make everything better, he thought. “What do you think would be best? Because I’m not seeing a way to make sure Wrin doesn’t turn on us. Not without doing something extreme.”

“To be frank, I see nothing but extreme actions as well.” Volux cocked their head to the side, a finger resting over their lips as they cradled their chin in their hands. “I trust Thace, but Wrin has always been a sullen brat. While his sudden violence is unexpected, that he’d get involved with something so ugly is unsurprising. As Thace has-- through you-- asked us both to grant Wrin patience, I feel comfortable suggesting that Thace be tied to Wrin in the meantime, until you’ve acclimated to Wrin’s quintessence. If he proves loyal and behaves, then we can examine furthering the bond between you two.”

Keith refused to look over his shoulder or shrink. “And Thace can be trusted?”

“He can be,” Volux said. “He’s a loyal officer-- bootlicker, really-- of the Emperor. From my personal interactions with him, he’s trustworthy. He’s Tuvani anyway. A temple-tender. The Clarions would see him as a collaborator to the Empire, and he’d certainly never be an officer in their world.”

“I guess that leaves me to propose the plan? And if they accept, you’ll get involved?” Volux nodded, leaving Keith to shrug. “So you’ll just be an anonymous Druid, then.”

“Preferably.”

“Then I’ll call you back later if there’s agreement. Though Thace might contact you anyway: he says he’s in charge of computer intelligence…? So, uh, yeah.” Volux sighed; Keith shrugged in return. “Sorry. At least you know him?”

“Unfortunately,” Volux said, as though he hadn’t welcomed the call like Thace was a friend. “Farewell for now, Paladin.” The call cut off. Keith imagined Volux going for a drink, and Keith wished he could have one too.

He rubbed his temple. It was a mess-- a salvageable mess, sure, but still a mess. If Thace or Wrin refused to be bonded, they’d be stuck. Keith couldn’t reasonably trust Wrin to change. He didn’t know Wrin, beyond the threats, and even if Wrin was spurred on by simple grief, what if he turned back to it? He’d been manipulated once already.

No, what Keith needed was for Wrin to be bonded and taken off duty. Keith couldn’t get those on his own, but between Volux and Thace, he had slight pull. He went to the study’s door and knocked on it. It took two knocks before the door opened. Wrin opened the door wide; behind him, Thace sat in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair. “I talked to them,” Keith said, for some reason feeling a need to state the obvious.

Neither of them commented on it, at least. “Good,” Thace said. He stood, straightening his uniform before striding to the door. They gathered in the living room. Keith hovered by the terminal. “What does your contact have to say?

“They’re willing to help, but with terms.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the solid metal behind him. “They want Wrin bound to you. They don’t trust him in a bond with me yet, and frankly, I don’t either.”

Wrin made a noise of protest, but Thace waved him off. “And your contact trusts me?”

“They do. They’re aware of your rank in the military and socially. You’re not a Clarion, and you’re not a sympathizer.” Hopefully, Keith thought. “Wrin, when we’re sure you won’t turn on me, then we can bond.” Hopefully by then, he’d have someone different as a candidate.

Thace frowned. “Then we’ll have to dismantle the bond between myself and Wrin. That will be… unpleasant.”

“No more unpleasant than if Wrin were to turn back to the Clarions while in a bond with me.” Keith shrugged. “Those are the terms. What do you think, Wrin?”

“Do I have a choice?” was the reply.

Keith pretended to consider it. “Not really.”

“Keith,” Thace said, full of disapproval. Keith shrugged again. “Wrin, what do you think? This is your mind.”

Wrin’s flat expression didn’t change. “I’ll do it.”

“It’ll be painful,” Thace warned. “I am far from an expert at quintessence bonds, but I do know that breaking them is painful. While I do not fear pain, I cannot volunteer you for that.”

Wrin shook his head. “I’ll do it,” he repeated. “It’s too late for protest.” He stared down Keith, as though searching for something. “You’ll have my memories, Paladin.”

“I will,” Keith said. “At least eventually. I don’t want them, but I need to speak Galran. And you need this for the protection, so we’re even.” Wrin pulled away, shaking his head, but he didn’t protest. Nobody did, despite the madness they were discussing.

When Keith called Volux, Thace and Volux shared mutual stares and vague discomfort, as though people discovering they spoke was a dirty secret. The only good thing about it was that Wrin looked as confused as Keith felt. But the deal was made: Wrin would bond to Thace, and Thace would monitor him. Wrin would be put on medical leave.

“It’ll make you seem pious,” Volux said from behind their mask, and nobody seemed eager to explain the statement.

Keith interjected as the conversation lulled. “What are we going to do about the birthday party? They’ll expect Wrin to bomb it, even if he’s on medical leave, barring him being bed-ridden. And even after, anyone I meet with is going to be a target.”

“I guess I can contact them,” Wrin said, “and say I found a better opportunity. One with bigger figures. It’ll buy some time. Maybe.”

Keith grit his teeth at the sullen hedging. “And what would the better opportunity even be?”

“In a week,” Volux said, “you’ll present your gifts to the Voice.” Wrin jerked at the words; Thace gaped. “It’ll enrage them. But the idea of your blood being spilt on an altar will appeal to them too. I can arrange things so that when they check, they’ll see your booking.”

“So we’ll make me not be a target,” Keith said, “by making me be an even bigger target. I’m not feeling this logic, Volux. What if they decide to take offense and stop me before I get to offering things to the Voice? You’re making some leaps--”

“I promise, Paladin, that I know what I’m doing.” Volux spoke in clipped tones, as though they didn’t want to deal with questions. But this was important-- this was life and death. Keith stared down Volux through the terminal’s screen. “...Don’t look at me like that.”

“I want a better reason to trust this.” Keith glanced between the other two in the room. Wrin’s grimace ruined Thace’s neutral expression. Suck it up, he thought. Wrin had got him into this mess, and Thace had let Wrin get this point. “We’re talking about the lives of my friends.”

Volux’s eyes widened. Keith snapped his mouth closed. Did he correct it? Walk it back? It was too late. Wrin stared at him, his mouth curled into something resembling disgust. “Fuck off,” Keith told him. “You almost killed them.” Thace placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder, but Keith shrugged him off. “Volux, give me a guarantee.”

“I can give no guarantee,” Volux said. “I can give probability. I can make it less likely that you’ll be attacked. But I cannot erase the possibility completely. Are you not a warrior, Paladin? Do you fear death so much?”

It was goading. But it rang true. He could hide away in his cell, waiting to fend off an attack that would inevitably come, or he could actively attempt to postpone the confrontation and protect those he… liked. If he didn’t do the party, the questions would intensify for Wrin. They’d demand action sooner. But if he presented a better opportunity-- while he risked inciting immediate action-- it would give them time to root out the cells. “Your bait sucks,” he said. “...But fine.”

And so the party started like that. Fine. He didn’t know a good argument against the simulation rooms, so he didn’t argue with Hyladra’s invitation. He didn’t flinch as she guided him to a short table. It stood a foot off the ground, surrounded by blankets and pillows. Its black wood stretched out to accommodate dozens. “You sit at the head,” she told him. “I’ll be to your left-- I got Kymin to volunteer for your right-hand.”

Keith sat on a plush white pillow and tried not to worry about staining it. Dishes piled the table down: round pots, wooden square plates, and black goblets decorated the table. Hyladra perched beside him, smug. Kymin sat on the other side of him as more and more people piled in. Few took seats around the table: most turned into fixtures around the edge, watching and waiting. “Is that normal?” he whispered to Hyladra.

She nodded. “They’re not officially invited,” she said, “but all are welcome to the celebration. Take them as what would be considered small members of the army: mercenaries, merchants, and family.”

He recognized the faces that took seat at his table. Hetta, Elin, Rezya, and other friends of Hyladra sat beside people Keith had talked to in gyms, practice rooms, the sims, and during meals. Each held small gifts wrapped in thick veined leaves. “You’ll open them at the end,” she told him; “away from the prying eyes of others.”

“How do I thank them, then?”

Hyladra shook her head. “You thank them by offering their gifts to the Voice. Through you, their merit will be seen. Now, the blessing will be after we eat. Think of it as joy before duty. I’ve attempted to find music that is palatable to your senses.” Her brow furrowed. “I know that our usual music is far from your favourite. But there are arrangements that I think you will enjoy, and they’re suitably modern.”

The food was rich, the company kind, and the music was less offensive than usual. It was more tonal and unified, instead of the Galras’ usual cacophony. Hyladra monitored the sound levels, though she complained once that it was hard to read the effect the music had on him with his ears. “A Galra’s ears will twitch back and forth, like a living metronome,” she told him. “Your ears are strange. They move not an inch and don’t even react to sharp noise. I don’t know how humans manage sound.”

The answer to which was ‘loud complaints’ and ‘not caring’. He didn’t tell her that, though. She didn’t need to know the sour details of Earth. Instead, he poured her some more wine and stole Kymin’s goblet of ale. Kymin tried to protest, but Hyladra’s sharp look made him deflate.

Keith watched the proceedings keenly, waiting for a Clarion attack, but none came. As the meal ended and the bowls were passed around to hungry waiting spectators, he noticed a figure making their way down the hallway. He blinked. Thace watched him, considering him as he lingered by the party’s edge.

Sudden singing brought Keith back to himself. A pair of eerie growling voices were joined in contrasting harmonies. He watched Elin and another cadet sing quicksilver lilting songs. The Galra around were laughing and clapping. “It’s a family song,” Hyladra told him. “That’s Elin’s cousin! They would have learned the song from their parents as children.”

“What do the songs mean?” Hyladra shrugged. Keith lowered his voice. “I read, in the Captain of Thorns, that tongues were cut out for singing it wrong. But the author never explained anything.”

Hyladra paused. Her own voice had turned low. “They’re fragments from the Voice,” she told him. “Who knows if it’s true? But you’re not allowed to sing someone else’s song if you already have one, and to do it wrong as an adult is an affront to the Voice. For singing at celebrations, though-- that is a blessing. It is a kindness. Everyone will sing for you! Then it will be the blessing, and then we shall dance and finally, part.”

It was risky, then. They sang for his birthday, but they risked maiming themselves while doing it. Maybe attitudes had changed. But considering the Clarions, the attitudes had-- at best-- been slightly moderated. “The songs-- they’re in Old Galran?”

“Far older,” she told him. “Shortly after Voltron came into being, we gained these songs.” She lifted a little tray covered in jelly squares. “You should eat!” Transparent, he thought, but he took one, popped it into his mouth, and kept listening. It tasted of sugar and sea salt.

The various singers varied between skilled and what could kindly be called rough. Keith didn’t mind. He didn’t understand a word, but the songs all had a strange ethereal quality to them. They were mesmerizing. Hyladra’s song was slow and heavy, beating out a rhythm against stone. Keith shivered when her voice reached an inhumanly high wailing pitch. It wavered down to the earth, and she ended the song pressed against his shoulder. She yawned, showing off sharp teeth, and rubbed at her eyes. “Kymin!” she commanded anyway. “I’ve heard stories about your song.” Kymin shrugged. Hyladra reached over to him in the arm. “Don’t be dour that he took your drink away! He did you a favour.”

“I know,” Kymin conceded. “But I’m drinking later, I hope you realize. But my song first, I suppose.” Cracking, wild, and chant-like, Kymin burst into song, more intent on speed than care. Nobody looked offended, though, so Keith guessed it was all part of the song. It was like a war song.

Thace stood nearby, leaning against a pod. He watched Keith like he was picking apart a malfunctioning machine. It made him hard to ignore, but when Kymin’s song died out, Kymin pressed a kiss to his brow. “Think of better things,” Kymin told him. Whether he referred to Keith’s cloudy mood or Thace, he couldn’t tell.

Drums interrupted the affair. Keith jerked away, his hand grabbing for a knife that wasn’t there. “It’s a recording!” Hyladra said. “Fear not!” Her hand stroked his back. “The blessing is to begin. You might just recognize someone.”

Volux-- and it had to be Volux with that stature and build-- broke free of the crowd, dressed in Druid uniform. They carried nothing, though the crowd split for them like they were Moses. They stopped at the other end of the table. All around the room, people turned and lowered their heads. Volux didn’t wait. Their tone was more annoyed than reverent, though Keith doubted most could tell. Volux spread their arms wide, lifting their head up.

What ensued was a strange callback. Volux would spit out a litany of words Keith didn’t understand. In return, the assembled Galra spoke back. It stretched on for minutes. Keith tried not to shift on the pillow. The only word he recognized from the blessing was his title: Paladin. Krakor. It ended when Volux jabbed a finger at Keith. They hissed out something. Everyone turned to stare at Keith. They hissed out the same word.

If Hyladra hadn’t been there, Keith would have run. He shivered as silence filled the room, the music gone. They were waiting for something, he thought. Longer and longer, the silence stretched. Was he supposed to say something? Neither Kymin nor Hyladra had told him anything.

A voice started singing. It was Thace-- he’d broken away from the pod, and he walked towards Keith. The song was made of waves and reeds. It had a windy quality that acted as a balm to Keith’s panic. Keith twisted as Thace stopped behind him. Thace’s song hid the steel in his eyes. He sang slowly, his pronunciation careful, and Keith caught snippets of the song-- fragments of the wind-- enough that Keith put together a single phrase. _A’yen trikwe vfa lzi_.

When other voices joined in, the song turned to cacophony. Hyladra was beaming as she sang. Kymin laughed between his song’s words, nudging Keith on the back like they were in on some sort of secret. Volux was gone.

When Hyladra yanked him up to his feet, she didn’t pull him into a waltz or shuffling dance. She spun him wildly: he almost clipped the table with a wayward foot. Around him, other Galra began to contort and writhe as they sang. Even the spectators joined in. It wasn’t dancing as he knew it. It was a fury, a release from the worry of mistakes in the family songs or the tenseness of prayer. Gifts fell to the wayside. Nobody cared.

Time passed. The furor calmed: Keith withdrew to the glass wall and watched as Galra moved together in undulating patterns. They mimed each other as they bent and twisted, imitating, he thought, the most sinuous reeds and gusts of sand. Hyladra had vanished for more drinks and dancing. It left him and Kymin alone, though Kymin was deep in his cups.

Keith was exhausted. What from, he couldn’t even say. Something about the pressure and pomp weighed him down, he suspected. He thought seriously of sitting down beside Kymin, but that admitted weakness, and it made the occasional visit odd when he was so far below them. Not that he received many visitors: they’d flooded in at the start of the party, when he’d sat on the pillow, but he got the feeling that time had passed. It was the guests’ time. He didn’t begrudge them it.

“Happy birthday,” Thace said. Keith turned his head slightly to see Thace cradling a leaf-wrapped package. “I believe that’s your planet’s salutation for it.”

“It is, yeah.” Keith eyed Thace. I’m not sure why you came was rude. But so was the question of why Thace had broken the silence. “...What was that last part about? The singing?”

Thace stuck out his package. Keith tried not to be annoyed when he took it. There was no table to dump it on, and the pile of gifts surrounding him and Kymin like a little wall was a rude option. Let me take your gift and toss it on the ground. “It is the community embracing you for another year.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “And nobody else was willing to do it?” Rude. But he didn’t take it back.

“The starting singer is important,” Thace said. That didn’t answer his question, he noticed. “Your friends-- Hyladra and Kymin-- had already volunteered you for community acceptance. But it takes more than a few close friends to be welcome in the community.”

“Wait.” Keith stared at him. “If someone hadn’t sung, what would have happened?”

“On the home planet, many years ago, you’d have been exiled to the sands until you found another community. Here, it’s simply a bit embarrassing.” Thace looked out the window. “My family song-- you heard some of it?”

“A bit,” Keith said. _A’yen trikwe vfa lzi_. “It’s… pretty?”

“Most family songs are,” Thace said. “But Keith-- remember the words. They may be useful.” And then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the dancing crowd.

_A’yen trikwe vfa lzi._ So what did it mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being slightly late! French classes toasted my brain.


	15. Chapter 15

When the party ended, Keith didn’t return to his cell. As people filed out, still dancing and singing, Hyladra tugged him away from the wall. “You’re tense,” she said. “Does being around so many people truly make you so nervous?” She shook her head. “Of course you are. Oh, Keith. They came for you! To make you part of the community.”

“That involved a bit too much judging.” Keith let her thread her fingers into his. She leaned into him, her lilac fur like gossamer in the light. “I take it you didn’t warn me because of that.” She shrugged; her shoulders bumped against his chest, and he sighed. “I’m not angry. It went well. It was just an unpleasant surprise to have people staring and pointing. Earth’s customs are very different.”

“I thought about finding them.” Keith blinked down at her. “Through stray signals or through the files gathered on other humans. But that’d be cruel, wouldn’t it? To remind you of what’s out of reach.” One of her ears flicked, ghosting under his jaw. She was tall-- tall enough that she had to sag to tuck her head under his chin. “You have us, though. Even if-- even if you shouldn’t.”

He’d admitted it to himself, in a way. He’d called them friends. How did he lie to himself after that? “I appreciate it.” He let his hand lightly touch her back. She didn’t pull away or shift, so he took it as a good sign. “I know this was a lot of work, and that this isn’t usual for outsiders.” That’d been made clear in the past day.

“Dearest,” she told him, “you may have been an outsider, but you’ve been accepted into the community. You may not be Galra-- but you are no outsider anymore.”

That followed him when they broke apart. Sentries were collecting the offerings as he walked past: Hyladra told him they’d be stored in his cell until needed. She gave him a kiss as she left to sleep. It was the same day as when he’d confronted Wrin. There’d been so much arguing, fights, and danger that it’d stretched an eternity. All that mattered, though, was that no one had attacked the party despite the target it presented. It let him walk the halls with confidence.

He met Wrin, Volux, and Thace in Thace’s rooms. Volux wore their full uniform still, though their slouch looked less impressive. Wrin winced and grimaced as Volux tied a gold band around his bare arm. Thace hovered by the terminal, cradling a steaming red cup. Wrin glared at Volux. “Is it supposed to hurt?”

“Yes,” Volux said waspishly. They tightened it further. A dial rested against Wrin’s furred skin. Keith kept his distance, though he watched the dial. A clock’s hand twitched inside the glass. “Sit still and let me get this over with.” They twisted a knob on the dial. Wrin let out a sharp yelp. Everyone ignored it-- Thace was looking at a tablet, while Keith was transfixed by the dial.

Gold oozed from beneath the straps. Keith expected Volux to press a vial to the ooze, but they ignored it in favour of tightening the strap more and more. “Druid--”

“Be quiet,” Volux murmured. They let go of the strap and lifted their hands up, palms facing the ceiling. They conducted a song Keith couldn’t hear: their lips whispered something, but the room’s humming electronics and the tank’s swishing water hid the words. The ooze lifted as Volux motioned upward.

The movements turned to the reed-like dance of the party. The gold floated like a cloud, guided by Volux’s fingertips. Its cloudiness thickened with each pass of their hands. It went from an aura to a cloud, and then to a solid sheet of gold. Keith swore someone could have woven clothes from the gold, even as it shimmered wetly.

A vial floated up. Keith’s brain struggled to accept it, but it floated higher and higher, closer to the golden sheet. “What the fuck,” Keith whispered. Thace snorted nearby; Keith glanced over to see a playful smile dancing at his lips. His eyes-- pinned to Keith-- showed no condescension or malice. When Keith turned away, the vial was filled with gold.

Volux’s elegant hands clipped it closed. They took their time removing the arm-strap. “We’ll start the donation in later,” they told Keith. “We have investigations to do first.” Wrin sneered at Volux-- who promptly let the leather strap slap against his bare arm. He didn’t take any pleasure in that, Keith told himself; he was better than that.

Wrin stood, walking away from Volux who examined the vial. “I got in contact with the Clarions again,” Wrin said to the room. “They weren’t _happy_ with the change, but they understood it eventually. They want me to bomb the temple with everyone in it-- they seem to think that some big collaborators will be there. Even, possibly, the Emperor. More importantly, though, I wrote up what he looks like.” Wrin paused. “Not that it’ll help the Paladin, but maybe one of you can hold his hand through it.”

“Fuck off,” Keith said. “What are we doing with the information? I don’t get the vibe anyone in this room is a big people person.”

“Except for you,” Wrin said. “They flock to you. You’re like a... like a--”

“--a zoo exhibit.” Keith sighed. “So you want me to-- what? I can’t just walk around asking people.”

“There are ten thousand Galra on Central Command.” Keith startled at Thace’s interjection. Thace cradled his cup, the steam pluming up to dampen his fur. “I have database access to every single one of them. With some search parameters, we can cut that into smaller portions. Which is where you come in, Keith. Volux and I have jobs. Wrin is to spend his time on medical leave in the medbay barring the occasional excursion. But you can vanish for hours, and nobody will suspect a thing.”

His heart sunk. “You want me to go through _hundreds_ of people’s records to find the guy who met Wrin.” That would take hours-- he could be sitting in front of the computer for half a day if he didn’t get a good description. “Wrin, you better have the most fucking detail--”

“I have what I have,” Wrin snapped. “It should be on your tablet. Your tablet, mind, that I went and collected for you. _You’re welcome_.”

“We’re pretending it isn’t evidence of what you did, then?” Keith spotted a tablet on the sprawling couch, and he stalked over to scoop it up. A crack etched its way up from the bottom left corner’s glass. He rubbed it with his thumb, as though that’d fix it. “I can’t read the description, though.”

Wrin blinked, his mouth turning to a slight gape before it clicked closed. “I can draw a picture?”

“Can you draw?” Keith countered. Wrin frowned; Thace’s snort answered the question. “For fuck’s sake. Give me a tablet pen-- I’ll do it.”

Volux pretended not to watch over Keith’s shoulder as Wrin described the Galra. They were a man-- long-faced, slightly doggish, with squinting, suspicious eyes and a drooping mouth. Keith shaded in the sharp lines of the man’s face: Wrin’s sounds of approval pushed to him to make the face hungrier and hungrier. When Wrin pushed him on again, Keith looked up from the hatchet face. “Okay,” Keith said. “Is this guy sharp-faced or dead?”

Thace choked on something; Volux flat out laughed. “I didn’t make him!” Wrin’s hands fluttered before settling back on his knees. “He is-- he’s _odd_. He looks stretched out.” Wrin leaned forward, almost completely covering the tablet screen from Keith’s view. “...You’re good at this.”

“I’m decent,” Keith said. “Nothing more.”

“Move,” Volux ordered. “I want to see!” Wrin didn’t have time to pull back. Volux shoved him out of the way and leaned over the tablet, dissecting the drawing. Their humming and hawing went on for an eternity before they nodded. “It’s good.”

“Thanks?” Keith pulled the tablet back, away from their prying eyes. “The record pictures better be updated often. And if he got a recent haircut, I might not be able to pick him out.” He shifted uncomfortably under their stares. “Look, all I’m saying is that this might not be a _fruitful_ venture.”

“Take it as it comes,” Thace said. “If you find this Clarion, our position will be improved. If not, we remain where we are. Either way, we shall figure this out.”

“What about video footage?” Keith asked. “From around the time Wrin meets with these guys. We’d see them on it, even if they’re a bit far from the location. Wrin could watch the footage-- he’d recognize them, right?”

Thace shook his head. “I tried. But the deactivated cameras encompass several elevators and floors. This man could have entered through any of them, on any floor. You could, of course, filter through every floor and section’s elevator footage.”

“Ugh.” Keith tossed the pen on to the couch. “Is there food here, at least?”

There was food. Dried meats, jelly droplets, and nuts were placed in little red square containers. Keith took a container of each and a strange fizzy drink that Thace said tasted sharp and sweet. They left him to the terminal-- the search parameters plugged in, and thousands of records to dig through.

They didn’t have much. The Clarion was male, young, and likely low-ranking. There was nothing else. They left him there-- alone with a single button, his food, and a chair he’d dragged in front of the terminal. He had to lean forward to tap the screen’s button-- over and over and over again, through profile after profile. He understood some of the symbols-- yes, no, male, female, other, but most of it was like trying to look through opaque glass.

The pictures were crisp. They were taken in front of a white screen with each person in uniform. He squinted at a few of them. There were a few skinny, tall Galra with hungry faces. But none of them carried the famine that Wrin insisted his contact did. Time inched by; he took small breaks to fiddle with pens and nibble at snacks. His eyes strained in the room’s dim lights. He tried to figure out how to turn them up more, but the switches either refused to respond to him or were at max already. A fish swam around beside his head, its face bumping the glass. Its round blue eyes with goat-like pupils were creepy, but he welcomed the company.

He thought about a nap after the first thousand. It was a whining thought, he knew. He took a walk around the room instead. Another thousand and another, and his temples ached. He’d taken down a name or two as possibilities, though he doubted them. His hand was stiff from the careful note-taking. Galran’s delicate lines, quick swishes, and small writing was antithetical to what he was used to.

When he found the man, he had a handful of nuts stuffed in his mouth and a drink in his hand. Wrin, he thought, had not been lying about the sheer _hunger_ to the man’s face. It wasn’t natural-- it didn’t come from not eating. It came from sickness. Keith left the glass bottle on a side table as he took down the name. He knew how to read it, he knew its importance, but he knew nothing about the man, despite every bit of his record being on the screen.

Adran Dredav. Dredav had to be his rank: what it meant, who knew? What Keith knew, though, was that his uniform was above a cadet or low-ranking officer. Nothing like Thace or Kymin’s uniform, but it was finely made. Keith held up the tablet beside Adran’s photo. It was close-- the hunger made Adran striking, leaving Wrin to miss other identifying features, like a scar on his chin and a bare patch of fur on his neck, like he’d been burned there once.

Thace had showed him a few buttons on how to call through his tablet, though his memory was fuzzy enough that it took time to remember how. He called Volux instead of Thace or Wrin: Volux picked up, though without video. “Wait,” was the command given, so Keith did. A door closed on the other end. “You found something?”

“Adran Dredav. Can’t read a thing in his profile except for that, but he looks like he’s got some rank. Nothing like Thace, but he’s no Wrin.” He spared a thought for the sadness he carried that Wrin wasn’t there for the comment. The Galra would bristle like a brush at it. “Gonna guess, but you have no idea who that is.”

“Wrin and Thace likely won’t either,” Volux said. “Wrin is a cadet, after all, and Thace hardly has time for anyone outside of computers. But once someone reads his records, we should gather a bit of insight into Dredav. Then, perhaps, we can use your connections for the more… unspoken tales and rumours.”

It implied there were spoken ones and that they were recorded in the file. He flopped in his chair and squinted at the information again. Volux implied that there was an official personal information section somewhere-- a place where all the accidents, silly rumours, and friendships were. It didn’t surprise him, he supposed. Central Command was the main station for the Empire, and the Empire had never given him the impression that it shied away from more fascist ideas. Information-gathering forces-- the alien version of the Stasi-- wouldn’t be shocking.

Thace returned first. He found Keith dozing his chair, a container of berries in his lap. His fingers were stained a rosy pink from the plump berries’ juices. They tasted, he thought, of vanilla and matcha. “How much did you eat?” Thace asked, looming over him with a disapproving look.

“Less than the number of profiles I had to go through.” Keith’s eyes twitched in exhaustion. His vision took a moment to stabilize after each blink. “His name’s Adran Dredav.” He pointed a pink index finger at the screen. “S’him right there.” A yawn tried to burst forth from his mouth. His jaw cracked but his lips remained sealed for it. “Sorry-- dunno why I’m so tired.”

“You haven’t slept for two and a half days.” Keith blinked and regretted it. HIs eyes watered. “You caught Wrin and never slept that night. Then you were up for the party, and you’ve worked through the night and early morning. It is now afternoon, and here you are, yawning and drooping like a dying reed. It doesn’t help that those berries are known for their soothing effects-- I myself eat several before bed.”

Did they contain melatonin or something else? He put the container on the desk, only mostly sad to give them up. Food packed his swollen belly, and he realized now that he’d tried to power through exhaustion with sheer carbs and sugar. “I make good decisions.” He hated himself sometimes. “Give me a quick version of the record-- I should probably sleep before I pass out and become a problem.”

Thace leaned over him. Instead of watching Thace read, Keith rubbed at his eyes and flexed his hands, trying to zap some life into them both. He hadn’t even realized how little sleep he’d gotten. Time moved strangely on Central Command. A day passed only by watching others, and none of the three he was around seemed models of health and rest. Otherwise Thace would have kicked him out of his quarters to sleep.

“He’s a tanner,” Thace said. “A small time officer-- he works in munitions engineering. Pulse weapons and such.” Thace ran a finger along a knot of writing. “Notably pious, though the officer believed him the uncreative pious-- nothing radical, nothing strange, and certainly nothing Clarion about his prayers or what he preached to others.” Thace snorted. “The biggest complaint is his evangelizing causing the occasional bit of friction.”

“Any citations?”

“Two, one of which is notable for the wrong reasons. It seems he turned over a Clarion early in his training.” Thace shook his head. “They may have framed the accused-- or decided their worth was better to ingratiate a new recruit to command.”

“Brutal,” Keith said; “but effective. He got where he is because of that, didn’t he? He looks too young to be an officer.”

Thace paused. “You’re right about that. He’s been an officer for several years, which is notable for someone so unconnected to the levers of power. He would have been barely out of the academy when he was promoted.”

“And now he’s a Clarion organizer.” Keith stood, forcing Thace to lean back from the screen. “There’s no way nobody’s noticed something odd. Even if it’s just a strange sleeping schedule or sudden friends he didn’t have before-- it’s got to be something. The Clarions are like a cult, right?”

“Heretical,” Thace said. “Not so much a cult, at least in a Galran estimation. They believe in the Voice-- they simply believe that worship should be different, and that old ways should still matter.”

Back on Earth, it’d be a cult. But maybe the Galra were more fluid in their understanding of religion and its dictates. “So he’s a backstabbing nut with delusions of power and enough thugs behind him to make things awkward for the rest of us.” Keith crossed his arms and almost kicked up his shoes on to the desk. Only Thace’s disapproving look kept him from doing it. “Where does that leave us? Should I go find Hyladra and snoop for information?”

“You should sleep first. As eager as I am to finish this business, if you go to her exhausted, one of two things will happen. You’ll either slip and reveal your purpose, thus forcing us to convince her that this is a good idea, or she’ll see your exhaustion and take you to the nearest resting station anyway.”

“She’s not my keeper, Thace.”

Thace looked down at him. “For the sake of your pride, I will spare you the argument.” Thace, instead of making him return to his cell, opened the door to his room. “The sheets are clean,” he was told, “and you can use the shower when you finish. There are spare clothes in the bottom drawer of the bed.

The bed, Keith thought, said some things about the Galra. A lumpy small circle tucked into a corner, sheets and pillows covered it. Little tables were to either side: on them  was a half-full pitcher of water, a remote control, and a vase of nuts. Decorative cacti were by the doors; a painting of a red mesa was on the opposite wall. Keith curled up on the bed after kicking off his shoes. A canopy sheltered him from a missing sun, and he drifted to sleep among a sea of purple and red. He dreamed of nothing: a simple blankness filled his mind, and he relished it as he never had before. The fewer strange things that crawled into his mind, the better.

A sharp rap to the door woke him up. He startled at first: his limbs were askew, and the sheets were tangled between them. “Paladin!” Wrin called. “Wake up. Everyone’s off duty.” Keith’s brain stumbled towards awakeness. It tripped over his sagging eyelids. His body demanded more sleep. “Paladin!”

“Shut up,” Keith slurred. Another pounding of the door showed Wrin hadn’t heard. “Shut up!”

“Stop being lazy,” Wrin said, as though he wasn’t garbage personified. Keith pushed himself up and detangled his body sheet by sheet. Stumbling free from sleep and the bed, he tripped into the door. He ripped it open to see Wrin crossing his arms and frowning.

Keith ran a hand through his hair, trying to sort out any cowlicks and stray strands. “Not a fucking word, Wrin.” He pushed past the Galra to see Thace and Volux by the terminal.

“You always sound so strange swearing. Like some wizened hermit who’s been dragged through the mud a few times.” Wrin tailed after him, trying to loom over Keith’s shoulder. “Maybe you should try to live up to your language’s esteem.”

“No one cares what you think.” Keith smoothed his wrinkled clothes. It didn’t help their creases. “Did you dig up anything more? Or should I find Hyladra?”

“She won’t be needed,” Thace said. His hands were busy poking and prodding at buttons and words. Windows flicked by. “I’ve cross-referenced Dredav’s name to other records. While it has been largely famine, Volux noticed some interesting things.”

Volux leaned against the wall behind Thace. They clutched a bowl of date-like nuts. Shells littered the top: Volux cracked a nut one-handed and tossed the shell into the bowl. Keith felt sorry for whoever tried to eat from the bowl next. “He runs in a little crowd of fanatics-- little prayer groups that he organizes and then secrets away from prying eyes. Some of his fellow officers-- and those that report to him-- have been late from such meetings, and there’s been a few cases of injuries mysteriously happening. I’ve heard rumours of it, but it only made sense when the Clarion presence was found.”

“So he hangs around the-- what? Temple? Church?” Volux’s muttered _temple_ answered him. “Temple, then. And he leads his weird little prayer group and might be maiming people. Fun guy. Where does that leave us?”

“We need him isolated.” Thace slashed a hand across the screen. All windows closed, leaving only a glowing red symbol on the screen. He flopped back into Keith’s chair, looking exhausted. “I could order him to a private location and take him, but that would leave a trace for when they found him missing.”

Keith digested that for a moment. “And what are we going to do to him? Because if he’s missing for a length of time…”

“We’ll do what’s necessary,” Thace said. It was smooth-- too smooth, and it reeked of questionable things. “I’ve investigated his personal searches and inquiries. He’s been especially interested in what you’ve been doing, Keith.”

“So I’m the bait, then. But if we just leave me out wherever, we don’t know who’ll bite.” Keith frowned. Where would he have to go? Where would Dredav be guaranteed to watch and guaranteed to be lured out by? “...You’re not serious.”

Thace didn’t shrink, though he shifted uncomfortably under Keith’s eyes. “I can’t order you--”

“I will,” Volux said. “Paladin, we need you to go to the temple. From there, I’ll guide you to his favoured prayer room. Together we can search for incriminating materials and-- hopefully-- kidnap a terrorist. No yes or no: I only accept a nod and you showering.” Volux leaned over Thace to squint at the terminal’s screen. “Thace, you’ll have to assist me in using this. I hardly have your skill.”

Wrin walked out from behind Keith. “What about me?”

“No one cares,” Keith said. Thace sighed, even though Volux laughed. “Preferably, you’ll be out of sight and out of mind.”

“Be kind,” Thace said.

“No,” Volux said; “don’t stop him. Paladin, you’re as vicious as any old hag.” They were grinning. “I like this more than you being sullen.”

Keith looked down his nose at Volux. “This from _you_.” Keith ignored Volux’s outraged half-squawk in favour of staring Thace down. “Do I get to be armed? I’m guessing not.”

“If you’re caught armed, it will end badly for all of us.” Thace shrugged, his arms out and his palms upturned. “I would offer your knife, but the Emperor’s dictate stands.”

Keith sighed. “Great.” He shouldn’t be so salty-- he’d signed up for this, and he’d known a weapon was unlikely. “Do I get a wire? A mic? Or do I have to rely on the tablet?”

Volux eyed Thace. “If Thace has some, I believe we could set up something.”

Thace had commandeered a wire and a small camera. The wire-- once Keith had showered and changed-- was affixed to his collar. It was a deep purple, almost black, and when put on the inside of the collar, it wasn’t visible to passing gazes. “It’s the same colour as your eyes,” Thace told him. He sounded pleased by that, strangely. Keith shrugged in reply.

The camera was a pair of contacts. He’d never used contacts before, so they all crowded into the bathroom as Keith fumbled his way through the process. Wrin muttered behind them as Volux laughed at a guiding Thace. “You don’t even have claws to fear,” Wrin sniffed.

“No,” Keith said, “I only have blunt stabbing fingers to fear.” The contacts were weird against his eyes. He blinked as they settled in: he half-expected his eyelids to feel the soft polymer. But he didn’t. All that happened was a faint overlay of glowing Galran symbols and lines. “...Can I turn off the light display?”

“I can dim it from my end,” Thace said. He dimmed it to a faint glow-- a little aura that coloured white to pink. He found it possible to ignore, though he still resented its presence. It made the elevator ride to the temple sickening: the aura made the harsh lights of the elevator tinted, and the lines shook and moved as he looked around and the elevator swished from direction to direction.

In his ear, underneath a layer of curling hair, an earpiece had been inserted. The designers had made an effort not to block all incoming sound, but things were still muffled. What sounded like a clear bell to his left ear was a muffled thrum to his right. It was garbage.

To make things worse, the temple wasn’t much of a temple. “It’s just a floor?” he muttered to himself.

“Shut up,” was Volux’s response.

But it _was_ just a floor. A floor on the bottom of the station, near to the centre. Admittedly, it was a non-standard floor. The metal halls were replaced by a camel-brown wood flooring and thick, heavy cloth walls. Burning candles hung from wood outcroppings that held crystalline water. Keith stopped by a candle, just out of curiosity. The candle smelled like a mix of chocolate and sandalwood. “Don’t touch the water,” Volux said, their voice surprisingly clear. “It’s meant for worshippers only.”

“Won’t touch it.” Keith moved on, his soft shoes brushing against the finely-grained wood. The maroon cloth along the walls likely hid the metal behind them: they were gathered and shimmered in the candle light. The cloth even covered the ceiling. It all trapped the candles’ heat in, and he suspected the ventilation shafts channelled warm air in as well.

Mesa-red doors interrupted the cloth walls. He touched them to find they were made of a heavy sandstone. Their handles were burnished bronze-- they jabbed out at waist-height and were shaped in curling shapes that made Keith think of notes. There were no locks on them: when he pulled one door, it opened smoothly, without a hitch. He looked at its siding to see no latch.

The room’s held a sea of pillows centred around a bubbling fountain. No one sat on the pillows, and the fountain’s pristine water seemed untouched. “It’s a purification room,” Volux said. “When rites are completed, people go here to absorb the presence of the Voice.”

The fountain bubbled some more. “What makes the Voice’s presence be here?”

“Nothing. The Voice’s energy is given during rites. It is simply an exhausting process, and few care to make the trek back to their stations immediately. Your business is in another place, though-- further down the hall.” Keith let the door swing closed. Something in its hinges slowed its movement, making it seem like the door floated.

There were markings on the doors further down the hall. The doors became more and more spread out, revealing in their own way the immense size of their interiors. Occasionally, he stopped by particular markings. One was a sun-like symbol, a circle with jagged edges and an eye in the middle. “What’s that?” he murmured. The contacts’ light turned and sharpened, as though zooming in.

“A Druid room,” he was told. “Don’t be nosy.”

In the end, the door he was after sat at the end of the hall. It was big enough to accommodate a car, and Keith tried to imagine throngs of Galra pouring into it. “What are the holy days for the Voice?” he asked as he struggled to open one of the door’s sides. “When do people come here?”

“There are dozens of festivals,” Volux said, “and a hundred holy days. We’ve had millennia to gather stories about those of exalted merit. But if you wish to know when services happen-- every third quarter of the day. There are, of course, later sessions in the fourth quarter for those who weren’t able to attend. But the third quarter rites are the most lavish.”

“Third quarter of the day?” The door swung open, revealing a room of pillows, candles, and a stage hidden by gathered curtains. “So you guys split your days by quarters?”

“We do. Forty qxi with a hundred and forty-five tineks each. The third quarter is when the sun is high: it is too hot to work or hunt, so we migrate to the temples’ shade and listen to the Druids sing. We attempt to preserve those rhythms in space, but it isn’t always possible.” Keith wove between the pillows, noting the small wooden tables that held water pitchers, snacks, and folded blankets. “For those unable to worship and drink of the Voice’s song, we hold a rite as the sun sets.”

 “Fun.” There were doors out of the main room-- they were as red and big as the front doors. To either side of each set, the same burnished bronze that acted as handles in the hall were now pillars. “Those rooms for overflow?”

“That,” Volux said, “and they lead to smaller personal prayer rooms. Go to the right-- try not to knock anything over. I have arrangement duties tonight.”

“How long until the next service?” he asked, but he knew that precise numbers would just confuse him.

Volux seemed to realize that. “Enough time for you to explore, but don’t waste time. Afternoon rites finished a short time ago-- it’s why there are still pitchers out.”

Sweat from the heat made him grateful for his loose clothes. The rooms were tightly contained ovens, he thought, and he wondered how the Galra with their thick fur tolerated it. He thought about asking Volux, but he suspected it’d be one of those questions that seemed to have an obvious answer to the Druid.

The rooms progressively shrunk as he passed through them. Volux’s litany of directions and the rooms’ heat numbed his mind. When the sea of pillows ended and another hall began, Keith sighed in relief. “Where now?” he asked.

“Third door on the right.”

It was another room, slightly less impressive than the others but still stiflingly warm. The wood flooring had been etched with symbols that looked nothing like the Galran Keith had been learning. “Is that Old Galran?”

“Unapproved Old Galran,” Volux said sourly. “A Druid’s been helping them hide it. Thace-- check on Druid Vyfa. She’s assigned to clean this hall. If she’s currently on duty, the Paladin might be in trouble.”

“Was I supposed to hear that?” Keith asked.

Volux sniffed. “Maybe; maybe not.” The pillows were neatly arranged around a large low-hanging table. A cushioned couch that could accommodate two people was behind it. Around the room, small cabinets were stationed. “Check the cabinets. They’ll hold prayer books and ritual items. Look at them slowly-- the contacts only transmit the information so fast through the temple’s walls!”

There were silver bowls marked with what Volux said were the three moons. Others were spindly spoons that carried oils and milks to supplicants. A heavy black blanket cushioned the items from the hard wood of the cabinets. “They’re for exorcisms,” Volux said, as though that was normal.

“Exorcising what? You guys believe in demons?” Considering everything he’d seen, he wouldn’t be too surprised if the Galra feared demons. Or if demons existed, if he was honest. A demon could be supernatural-- or simply a quintessence disease, for all he knew. “Is it common to have to do exorcisms?”

“It is rare.” Volux seemed to think their words over carefully before continuing. “I’m unsure what a ‘demon’ is, but we are sometimes forced to exorcise worshippers when their quintessence is tainted.”

“From what?” he asked as he went through a pile of papers. They were old, wrinkled, and yellowed. He smoothed one whose corners were upturned, almost dog-eared.

“Sorrow,” Volux said. “Grief. Anger. If Wrin had come to us, we would have treated him. Some cases have been the result of warped energy from the Voice. Someone who attends a service but doesn’t believe may take in the Voice’s energy in an incorrect way. The only solution is to purge them of the energy and deliver it to them properly.”

It was weird. Keith doubted Volux would admit that, though: they seemed to be a believer in whatever powers existed for the Galra. And maybe-- if Keith was honest himself-- he believed a bit in what he saw. He’d dreamed of it, though what the Voice’s message was, who knew? And he doubted even less the perception of Hyladra or Volux. Neither seemed the type chase unicorns.

Keith gave up on the cabinet. “Makes sense,” he said, though what did he know about quintessence? Just enough to fend for himself while being sick. He put the cabinet’s contents back inside the wood confines and moved on to the next. Volux let him do it in silence.

After the third cabinet, he couldn’t take the silence any longer. “You find anything on Vyfa?”

“She’s on the other side of the station,” Volux said. “No movements-- though we haven’t been able to track Adran down. Thace is watching the temple’s entrance right now. Expect a few minutes warning if he comes barrelling in due to an alarm or such.”

“Good to know.” Keith found a small swatch of red cloth, silken and embroidered in suns and moons. He held it up to a candle’s light. Within the red cloth’s weave were finely sewn Galran symbols. “What’s this?”

“A prayer cloth to hold the books the conductor reads from. It’s placed on the table to separate the sublimity of the Voice from the dirt of the earth. Personally, I think it simply prevents any spilled liquids from reaching the papers and books, but the higher priests and Druids have other things to say. Bring that paper closer, will you?” Keith lifted the little pamphlet closer to his eyes. The aura-lines sharpened. “Interesting. That’s information about a certain retreat that I’ve been suspicious of.”

There were mountains on the cover. “Is this seriously a heretic mountain retreat?” Volux choked on something-- a laugh, maybe. “Right, okay, then.” He tossed the pamphlet back into the cabinet.

He opened the fifth cabinet’s door and tried not to yawn as it creaked on its hinges. The inside looked no different than any of the others. He pulled everything from their shelves and pushed the limits of what the camera contacts could take. Volux complained only once: they’d been interested in a fancy pitcher. Keith picked it back up with only minimal complaint.

The final pile-- the bottom shelf’s goods-- was a tangle of blankets and silver knick-knacks. A strange orb rested atop the pile, and Keith tried not to linger on it. There were no grooves on it or even markings. It was simply a round silver ball that fit in the palm of his hand. Volux didn’t mirror his fascination: they didn’t even grunt. Keith placed it down with the other items.

Spoons, a circlet, and a series of strange teardrops were the rest of the pile. When his eyes focused on the teardrops, Volux hissed. “Pick one of them up,” they ordered. “Quickly.”

Keith scooped up a pair. They were the size of his thumb: their fronts held a red gemstone that glimmered in the candle light. Their rounded backs made them unable to rest on the wood. “What are these for?” Keith absently rubbed a thumb against the gemstone, fascinated by their complex cut. The gems mirrored the teardrops, but were small enough to leave a thick border of silver around them.

“Don’t do that,” Volux snapped. Keith’s thumb froze. “Evil. Simple evil. Put them down.” Keith did, though he watched the dozen teardrops still. Something moved in the red gemstone-- a light or shadow. “They’ve been communing directly with the Voice already.”

Keith digested that, even as his eyes refused to look away from the teardrops. “Is that-- is that religiously evil or should I be concerned about something more?” Keith stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s… they’re weird to look at.”

He waited for Volux to roast him for the admission. But it never came. “Cover them with the blanket.” Keith’s hands shook as he wrapped them up like a present. Through the blanket’s loose weave, he spotted glimpses of silver. Electric energy jolted his nerves, leaving his hands to spasm. “Keith, you need to leave. Things are worse than we thought.”

“Where’s Adran?” Keith asked. His hands shook, and his eyes ached as he stared at the blanket’s silver flecks.

He heard someone tap something. “He’s making his way to an elevator. There were possibly alarms in those cabinets for any prying eyes.” Volux went quiet, as though contemplating something. “Or they’re tied to those pendants. The Clarion cell may have tied their quintessence to the gems.”

Keith jerked back from the teardrops, as though burned. “Those are their _souls_?”

“Nothing like that,” Volux said. “They’re… windows to their owners, through which the Voice can speak. But that is none of our concern for now. You need to leave. As apathetic as I was to you fighting Adran, someone who’s drank from the Voice’s fount without an exchange or filter is no longer in their right mind. He will be beyond what you can handle. Get out.”

Keith didn’t understand-- couldn’t put the pieces together. His mind kept flashing back to the ruby-red gems and the light inside them. His eyes itched. His hand burned. There was a waking dream to it: he’d seen before the symbol that floated in from of him, he’d seen that red, and he’d felt this energy. He tried to breathe and lava spilled into his lungs.

“Keith!” Volux was banging the desk on the other end. “Keith, _now is not the time_.”

“It burns,” Keith slurred. He struggled to find the strength to crawl away. He slipped and slid on the pillows. In his ear, Volux was raging.

“Let go of the connection, Keith! Forget the red. Release the energy. The Voice is trying to come through.” Keith breathed fire. His vision clouded, turning to a mesa orange and ruby red. The soft lines of the contacts blurred to a faint pink aura. Something chimed, the sound booming and low. It crashed over Keith, ripping away Volux’s voice. It left shards of sound: clamouring bells, tinkling piano keys, the wild whistle of the wind. He saw, in a split prism of sound, every song he’d ever heard.

His arms gave out and his face smushed against a pillow. He tried to focus on breathing. “Keith,” Volux kept saying. “Keith!” The thrum of drums swallowed Volux’s tenor. His own heavy breathing played the conductor’s baton, pacing the warbling reed instruments. A chorus of discordant voices rose: they sang a thousand thousand songs. If he listened closely, he thought, he heard pieces that wove together into smaller pieces. Alone, or even together with a handful of others, the sound was sublime. But in the cacophony of the Chorus, all was one: a single blaring sound that screamed through the universe to any who would listen.

The cacophony was like a crow’s caw: sharp, throaty, and airy. He imagined wings brushing his face-- soft and glossy, the sunlight glinting off the black, turning the feathers silver.

The birds always crowded in Toronto’s parks. They fluttered between people, scavenging for food. Their wings hit the air in quicksilver motions, and Keith dreamed that the Voice soared above the morass of sound and looked down upon its Chorus. He wanted to look up; he wanted to see if what he imagined was real. He opened his eyes, though the colours didn’t fade. They combined and twisted together, forming a hundred crows that waited.

Unlucky. Cursed. _Thieves_. Maybe he saw himself in them, even from a young age. The long looks sent from wary parents and the not-so-quiet whispers of other children never had a starting point. They’d been there for as long as he could remember.

He struggled to lift his chin from the satin pillow. What were the birds saying now? Crows carried messages; they were harbingers of death and fate, according to so many legends, and here there hundreds, their beady purple eyes glowing in the colourful dark. Their eyes were intelligent, too keen for birds and foreign for humans. Just like Keith, they lived in the spaces between.

There was no strength in his limbs, but his struggles pushed his face free from the satin. He tried to look up-- up to where the sound took form. Amid the throbbing colours, a figure took shape. They stood in the door, tall and proud, and twin pinpricks of glowing violet stared him down. A voice slashed through the din in his ears. “Get out! Keith, get out!” But the words were another note to the symphony, and Keith watched as the figure began to approach.

All around him, crows took flight.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic torture and very fucked up things in this chapter.

“Keith!” Other voices joined in, their words fuelling the Chorus. _Keith, Keith, Keith, Keith_ the Chorus shouted, as though the name was an echo. _Keith_ was a breathy huff, like a poorly made flute, but in the raging sound of the Chorus, it was another layer to the symphony. He twitched under the onslaught, his mouth slack as the universe howled. The halls and walls of Central Command no longer existed. Above, below, and to his sides, the universe stretched to infinitum.

He was nothing. He was everything. His head ached at the sound, the pain lancing from his skull’s base. He tried to speak. Nothing came out. There was no air in his lungs, he thought, and his eyes watered from staring out unblinkingly. He let his eyes flicker closed, desperate for some respite. The colour tried to follow him, red and purple and orange and pink and then the world was a dull brown and chrome.

Behind his eyes, the Red Lion waited. It sat not in a Galran base, but on a sea of twilight-purple sand. Its large glowing eyes were beacons of pure white light in the dark. The edges of his vision coloured the longer he watched the Lion, and the muffled sounds of the Chorus were carried on the desert wind. The Red Lion crouched down, its belly brushing sand.

Keith could touch it. He was on the ground, curled in a fetal position, but the Red Lion was close enough that he felt the cold emanating from it. Cool air slipped between them: the Chorus’ heat threatened to swallow it.

Was the Red Lion real? He tried to lift an arm to touch the Lion’s metal. The colours washed over his vision; the sound grabbed at him, trying to pull him back to the thunder. The Red Lion breathed, and the Chorus receded. “Help,” he slurred. His hand shook as he inched it up. The Red Lion breathed again, the sound a low rumble, and its muzzle pressed closer.

He touched it. Ice killed the Chorus’ fire. He slumped against the metal, trying to catch his breath. The Red Lion remained still. All Keith heard was the quiet desert breeze and the sound of sand slipping beneath him. “Thank you,” he said. The Red Lion propped him up as he looked up into the night sky.

It could have been an aurora if he didn’t know better. The Chorus’ colours filled the sky, blotting out the stars and moons. Tendrils snaked down like lightning: they fizzled away around the far-off mountains’ tops. “...I’m sorry.” The Red Lion said nothing. He didn’t know what he expected.

Shrill screams scraped against his senses. He winced, but after a moment, it drifted away. The Red Lion’s lines blurred: its steady, slow breathing made the sand puff up. It was almost, he thought, alive. He wanted to talk to it more. But things kept fading. Even the Chorus was fading. Colours greyed and flickered, turning the world to static. It hurt to look at, so he closed his eyes.

He opened them when the desert wind was gone, and all he heard was boots clicking on wood floors. “Keith, please,” Volux whispered over the earpiece. “You have to move. This-- you’re not _allowed_ to die.”

He remained limp. The pillow against his face was sticky from drool. He forced back a wince, instead letting his unfocused eyes remain fixed on the cloth wall. From the corner of his eye, Adran loomed. “Stupid,” the Galra muttered. They kicked at the cloth on the ground. Teardrops spilled forth, and Adran laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Taken by the Voice, are we?” Adran moved away from the teardrops to crouch down to the side of Keith. Adran looked from Keith to the spot Keith stared at. “I hope She treats you as an outsider should be.”

Adran lightly touched Keith’s forehead with an index finger. His claw dug into Keith’s skin. His skin split under the pressure, and blood seeped free, trickling down his face. Keith refused to flinch. He’d felt worse. Adran traced a character onto Keith’s forehead. “Cleanse your temple, my Lady, and remove the stain heretics have brought to it. Take our penance in blood--”

Keith grabbed Adran by the hand and flipped him with it. Adran’s gold eyes were wide as he went flying, crashing into one of the cabinets. The Galra’s thin frame made it feel like he’d thrown a weedy teen-- not a warrior. Adran snarled from where he lay as Keith scrambled to his feet. Blood pooled in his left eyebrow. From there, it dripped from the eye socket’s top and onto his cheek. Down, down, down it flowed until it reached his jawline. Its droplets stained the pillows below and splattered on to the warm floor. “Fuck you,” Keith said. He charged Adran, his strides long and quick.

Adran yanked a knife from his belt. It was like an exaggerated kris: its snake-like blade writhed back and forth, spawning from a wicked tip. Keith didn’t slow. Adran lunged forward to meet him. “Don’t be stupid!” Volux barked, too late.

There was a quick strength to Adran that his body shouldn’t have given him. Adran aimed for Keith’s gut, but Keith was as reedy as Adran: he twisted to the side, skidding along crouched. He bashed into Adran, pushing him into the metal handles. Air whooshed out of Adran’s lungs. But it didn’t stop him. The knife darted down to stab into Keith’s shoulder. It hit the bone and deflected into the shoulder’s meatier parts. Blood splashed out. Keith dropped down to his knees, falling free of the knife and swiping it out of Adran’s hands, and grabbed on to Adran’s leg. His left hand kept the leg steady; his right hand punched into Adran’s knee. Something cracked.

A swipe forced Keith to roll away. His shoulder burned and a jolt of pain followed his sudden movements. When he came up, Adran was chasing him, teeth bared and gold eyes wild. Claws swiped at his arm; they caught on his shirt’s cloth, though their tips grazed his skin. Blood welled up in thin lines. Flecks flew when he grabbed Adran by the throat. His thumb pressed against Adran’s windpipe. Muscles twitched. Adran tried to wrench back, but Keith followed, digging his fingers deeper and deeper. When Adran tried to bash his hand away, his grip tightened; when Adran tried to pry his fingers off, Keith dug his nails in. They were blunt but even a butter knife could hurt when used right.

A kick to Keith’s gut earned Adran his release. His ribs creaked and Keith heaved, falling to his knees. The knife was close by, he thought. He just needed to leap for it. His left arm was injured, but he crawled using his right as Adran over-estimated his stamina. Adran’s knee gave out from under him, and the Galra went sprawling. Keith grabbed the knife as Adran grabbed him by the foot. The smooth metal hilt was warm in his hand. Its blade pointed down-- his hand kept it firmly in reverse grip.

Adran heaved at his leg, yanking him back from where the knife had been. He didn’t know, Keith realized. Adran still thought the knife was up for grabs. Keith let him pull him back and back and back again. Withered hands and spindly fingers wrapped around his right leg. His bones pulled at their sockets. A hand clapped against Keith’s back.

It wasn’t strong enough to push the air from his lungs. It was just enough to make him flinch and brace for worst. “You’re dead,” Adran hissed. “You’re fucking _dead_ , you--”

He stabbed Adran in the face. It wasn’t near the eyes or temple: he kept the knife to the cheeks before he dragged it down, from the jaw to the shoulder and further. It sliced through Adran’s pelt and peeled apart his weedy build. Aran yowled, the sound piercing and inhuman. “Keith,” Volux said, “you need-- what are you _doing_ \--”

Down, down, down. Over his chest, along the slight swell of his belly, and then near his crotch. He stopped inches above his genitals. The curved knife didn’t snag or hitch. It moved so fast that Adran only had time at the end to bolt away. It didn’t take him far: he smacked into the wall, the metal behind the cloth banging. Blood coated the floor, turning it slick. Keith didn’t follow. Instead, he stumbled to his feet. Adran tried to pinch the long cut closed.

Keith didn’t think he’d hit any major arteries, though he’d hit enough veins that Adran was shaking. When he loomed closer, Adran curled in on himself. Panic made his eyes a sour yellow. “Freak,” Adran slurred, drunk on adrenaline. “I’ll bear this scar with _pride_.”

“If you survive it,” Keith said. His hand shook as he held the knife aloft. Green blood slithered down the blade, pattering from the hilt’s arms onto his fingers. “I own this conversation, Dredav. And I have questions.”

Through his earpiece, he heard breathing. “...Don’t look him in the eyes when you do this.” Was he going to do it? He’d threatened. Arguably, he’d already started.

He’d killed before, sure. From afar and from up close. It weighed on him like thunderstorm clouds and the strangling heat of summer. He breathed thick guilt and spoke words that pretended to be unchanged. _I own this conversation_. Would he have said that before the attack? Would he have even thought it outside of the cold? For the cold was long gone. It’d been eaten by the Galras’ warmth, melted to tepid water and evaporated in a sun of unending touches and smiles.

There was nothing cold about him anymore. His mind raced in the spaces between time. He lashed out, guided less by conscious thought and more by a Galran impulse for victory and violence. When he reached out for the cold, nothing leapt to attention.

The only cold he’d felt in weeks was from the dream of the Red Lion. Its cold muzzle had pressed against his heated skin like a snowflake’s kiss. How did he want to do this? Would he do it thinking of the Red Lion, or would he breathe Galran fire?

“I don’t care about your questions,” Adran hissed. “You are _weak_ . You wave that knife around like you would know how to wield it. A simple cut and you believe yourself a master interrogator.” Adran wheezed a laugh. “You are nothing to the _Cres_.”

He filed the word away for questions later. Instead he laughed. “What do you know about my people? I was chosen by the Red Lion. Do you think it chose me for kindness? So many Galra corpses would disagree.” He prowled forward and flicked the knife’s point down, once again in reverse-grip.

“Take it slowly,” Volux said. “Start with the fingers. Keep the eyes: we may need them for any security protocols.”

“Volux,” Thace said, “you can’t be serious.”

Volux hummed and Keith almost felt the shrug. “A fanatic won’t break without stress.”

“Wait,” Wrin said, “what?”

“Nothing,” Thace and Volux said in unison. Thace continued: “Go take a rest.”

Keith wanted to laugh, so he did. It was high and wild. Adran flinched, despite his bravado. “Weakness,” Keith said. “You want to talk about weakness.” What words did Zarkon use? What was the rhythm of the Galras’ prayers? “You speak of weakness huddled against a wall, sliced like a fish.” Forward more and more, he thought; prowl like a predator and look into his twitching face. Stay away from the eyes. “I could kill you, here and now. And nobody would ever know what happened... except for me.”

“Do it,” Adran spat. “Do it, then, you coward. You speak like the traitor king himself.”

He could say his hand was forced. Maybe he’d say it was for the best. Perhaps Adran wasn’t worth the consideration: he was a terrorist, a fanatic, and likely a murderer. Of all the people to shed tears over, was Adran one of them? He crouched down a few feet away from the Galra. His stomach roiled, even as he smiled.

Blood made his grip on Adran’s collar loose. But Keith tightened his fist, making it look better than it was. He kept the knife to his side and a smile on his face. “Tell me again,” Keith said, “about how you’re not afraid. Tell me again how I’m the coward.” He let the knife drift closer and closer, near to Adran’s thigh. “How much do you value your hands? You’re an engineer, after all.” Adran tried to wrench himself free. The collar slipped out of his grip, but Adran’s motion was so undirected, he simply backed further into the cabinet. Keith followed, straddling Adran. He made a quick stab at Adran’s shoulder. Adran writhed beneath him, but all it did was drive the knife deeper. “What goes around comes around, kitten.”

“Kitten?” Volux’s voice shook with laughter. “Paladin, we need to have a talk.”

Keith ignored him, too busy looking into Adran’s face. Adran’s uninjured arm bashed him in the side. His ribs creaked, and he knew the skin would be coated in thick bruises in an hour. For now, though, he stabbed Adran in the other shoulder. He angled it for the cartilage.

Stabbings didn’t usually kill people. It was about location: people stabbed in the wrong places, missing organs and arteries. A slice was better-- a well-placed slice that dug deep could dissect arteries. The throat was the trophy, of course, but aiming for the crook of the arm was good too. This was knowledge gleaned through training and through research. It wasn’t something he talked about in public, at least among humans. The Galra would probably be fascinated by human biology and fighting techniques.

What he found, as he popped Adran’s fingers out of their sockets one by one, was that there was significant overlap. The organs were rearranged, sure-- only his memories his interaction with Kymin let him find a kidney to punch-- but arteries were in similar places and joints were obvious and bones were broken with only slightly more effort

He didn’t look Adran in the eyes as he spoke. The Galra grunted, hissed, and whimpered as he worked. “I need names, Adran.” Bringing Adran back would have simply shifted the responsibility, he thought. Thace or Volux would have done it: Volux was guiding him, after all, feeding him the occasional line. “There’ll be nothing in the Voice’s power to heal you after this,” Keith said after Volux finished. They made a pleased sound.

Thace didn’t speak. Keith thought about asking during the moments Adran’s head lolled back, his eyes glossy from pain, but something froze his tongue. Maybe he didn’t want to know what Thace thought; maybe he already knew. He was just glad that Wrin wasn’t in the room any longer. “How many of you are there? There must be others-- more than your little cancerous cell.” He stroked Adran’s left shoulder, his index and middle finger hitching on the uniform.

Adran twitched. He breathed something, the words unintelligible; Keith jabbed his middle finger into the shoulder wound. A shrieky keen made Keith wince. It was ugly-- _Keith_ was ugly. He’d killed and hurt people before, but nothing so cold, nothing so cruel. But who knew what Volux would do? Who knew what Thace would do? Keith was the only known quantity. For all his talk about the Voice never being able to heal Adran, it was a lie. Things would be painful, but everything would return to what they once were. Volux would take advantage of that. Keith would only do this once.

He tried to comfort himself with that. He traced the curve of Adran’s muscles on his chest; the first name came as the knife joined the central slice after curving around stomach muscles. More names came, one after another. Each name made him stop. Were they real names? Volux said Thace was searching, but they didn't mention them again. “You’re doing well,” Volux said. “Most vomit the first time they interrogate.”

“Are you lying?” Keith asked. Was it directed at Volux or Adran? Likely both.

Adran shook his head by inches. “Please,” Adran slurred. “Stop--”

“Are you lying?”

“I’m not,” Adran said; “I’m not, please, stop, _please_.”

“Push,” Volux said. “They always say they’re not lying, but it’s good to check. Maybe take an ear?”

Instead, Keith leaned back, away from Adran’s head. His back ached from looming above Adran. He stifled a hiss as his back cracked. How long had he been torturing-- _interrogating_ Adran? He held the knife to his side, higher than Adran could reach without rotating his shoulder. “Let me end this, Adran. I don’t want to do this. But I need to protect myself-- I need to protect those around me. Let me do that, and I’ll stop.”

“I don’t know anything,” Adran gasped out. Keith hadn’t done anything to fill his lungs and mouth with blood, so the gasping had to come from panic. “We’re-- we’re a cell. We’re just part of a bigger picture. I gave you names! I gave you those I know!”

Volux and Thace said nothing about the names. It left an echoing silence that Keith, in terror, tried to fill. “Should I give you to the Druids?”  _Give me something_ , he thought. Let me justify ending this.

Adran’s mouth gaped open, his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Kill me,” he begged. Keith tried not to tense. “There’ll be nothing left. I won’t exist any more. You’ll have your information, but I’ll be gone. You said you didn’t want to do this!”

Volux didn’t protest: didn’t even laugh. They remained quiet. Keith spoke. “I don’t. But I value my life and my friends more than I do you, the person who would have taken both.”

Adran’s eyes flickered purple. It was his mind, Keith knew: Volux said nothing about the change, and Keith remembered the violet eyes that’d watched him from the door as the Voice devoured his mind. “What happens to me after this?” His voice carried genuine fear.

Adran had to know. There wasn’t any other option but death. Zarkon would have him killed and his name Blighted. They’d likely torture Adran again-- worse this time, with the Druids conducting it. Keith’s hands shook. “They’ll kill you. After torturing you more. The Druids will be involved. You knew the risks when you joined the Clarion.”

Adran tried to struggle. But too much blood was gone to make his struggle effective. Keith would need to carry him to the Druids to save his life-- or cauterize the wounds here and now. Neither would save him in the end. Not with Zarkon and the Druids waiting. Keith leaned in. “I can finish this for you.” Adran said nothing, though he watched Keith. “No more torture, no waiting, no disgrace. Your name will be forgotten in the investigation. If Zarkon wins this war, your family will go unnoticed. If the Clarions win, you will be a martyr. But if I’m going to let you go, I need something, Adran. Something to sell to those I’m working with.”

“Clever,” Thace said.

Volux sniffed. “He’s trying to get out of the hard part. This isn’t finishing the torture: this is taking a coward’s way out.” Light tapping came over the earpiece. “You’ll have to justify this to me, Paladin, even if you get the most interesting information. Dredav doesn’t deserve leniency.”

It was hard, though, to look Adran in the eyes and torture him. He’d made the mistake Volux warned him against. Had the torture been necessary? He could have made the offer at the start. Would Adran have agreed? He didn't know, and the what if agonized him. “Just one thing, Adran.”

Adran stared at him. “...We have a plant at the Palace.” Dead silence in the earpiece-- freakish silence, like they’d stopped breathing. “Rumours are that there are dozens of cells on Central. I don't know the plan, but people keep saying something big’s coming. That the return of Voltron is an omen. Evil outsiders are going to come to the Empire and destroy us, and only the Clarions will defend the Galra. Zarkon’s reign will end.”

“Who’s the plant?” What was the Palace? Keith shook his head. “That’s not enough. You’ve got to have _something_.”

“I don’t know,” Adran said. “I don’t--” He choked on tears. “We’re small cells. I-- I never contacted other cells, and anyone higher up only contacted me.”

“Like you contacted Wrin?” Adran flinched. “What about code words? Greetings? There had to be a way to find allies. What Druids are helping you?”

“Vyfa kept our secret. She-- she helped make the _erya_. But there were others! Jisal, Trys, Volux--”

Air left Keith’s lungs. “Stop lying,” he hissed. “Stop lying!” Silence in his earpiece. Volux said nothing. They didn’t even bother denying such a blatant lie. “Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth or I will hand you over to Volux themself.”

“How do you know?” Adran demanded. Their eyes flicked from him to the wall and back. “How would you know?”

“A Paladin’s powers are limitless.” The hissed words were lies, but Adran would never know. “Tell me before I have Volux peel apart your mind.”

“You’re working with them.” Adran’s wet eyes darted around. “They know…!”

“One thing,” Keith said; “one thing, and you’re free. Nobody will ever know you told.”

“When someone comes,” Adran gasped. “When someone comes-- someone new, someone whose voice touches the Chorus… We find them by a phrase. Is there any temple whose voice is as clear as this one? Never. It’s why, out of ten thousand temples, we come to this one.”

“And then?”

“Then we gift a Voice’s Eye-- an erya, a teardrop. From there, they’re known to us, and can join our prayers.” Adran sagged. “Does that satisfy you? Can I die in peace?”

Keith paused. “Don’t you want to die in combat?” Adran snorted. “Others would call you a coward.”

“I joined the Clarions for peace,” Adran said. “So that we could rejoin to the Voice as we had long before. Not so that I could slaver over death like the traitor’s followers.”

“You ordered deaths as Zarkon would.” Keith raised his knife. “But I’ll spare you a visit to the Druids.” He stabbed the knife through Adran’s armor, through his clothes, through the withered muscle that shielded Adran’s brittle bones and strong heart. Adran’s eyes widened and he choked on blood; Keith lifted the knife and slashed his throat. Blood sprayed over Keith, blessedly less than it would have been if Keith had started there in lieu of torture.

And that’s what it’d been. Torture. He could call it interrogation-- just as Thace and Volux had-- but torture was torture. Adran tried to lift his hands to his throat, but his other wounds compounded the blood loss. Adran passed out.

Keith staggered to his feet. “If he’s lying,” Volux said, “you’ll have cost us time and a lead.”

“You’re just sour that he tried to tar your name.” Keith stared at the knife. The green blood shined like acid. “How are we cleaning this up? Vyfa’s going to come through at some point.” He hobbled away from Adran’s warm corpse, trying to forget the sour yellow of the Galra’s eyes. His heart climbed up his throat, and he tried not to vomit. How much of what Adran had said were lies? He had no way of knowing. Heat surged through his veins and his skin prickled from the wave of panic. _Endure_ , he told himself. “I’m not cleaning it, either way.” Everything was fine. It was going to be fine.

“Useless,” Volux scorned. “But fine. I suppose you did your work. Wrin can clean it up.” A voice from far away called out a _Hey!_ which Volux ignored. “We can dispose of the body in the ritual fires. Far from the burial he deserves, but we can simply sent his ashes into space.”

“And after that? What do we do now?” Keith reached the door and hesitated to open it. “Do we go to Zarkon? We have important information.” The world spun as he remembered the way Adran had struggled beneath him. _Not now, not now, not now._

“Nothing he couldn’t get by himself,” Thace said. “Your mercy to Adran will be appreciated by his ancestors, but not by the Emperor. If we turn to him now, Wrin will be brought to Haggar.”

Keith’s failure to care levels were high. But he’d done this for a reason. What was the point in torturing Adran for Wrin when he’d just turn Wrin over to Haggar? “Tell Wrin to bring new clothes when he comes down,” Keith said. His vision blurred in a wash of colours before it steadied. “I’m going to need more quintessence. I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

“Considering you let the Voice into your mind,” Volux said crisply, “I’m far from surprised. I have several vials harvested. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the pleasure of having your mind taken off certain matters.” Keith grit his teeth. There were implications to that. Keith wanted to argue that he wasn’t addicted, that it was just a biological necessity, but engaging Volux often meant they won.

Wrin vomited when he entered the room. Keith held his nose for it. “Never seen a corpse before?” Keith asked, as though he’d seen any before Voltron. “Give me the clothes.” He should have been sympathetic, but he was too tired. He’d done this for Wrin. Wrin could either accept it and thank him or resent him for it, adding to the man’s toxic slurry of hatred and disdain.

Nobody stared at him in the halls. Nobody noticed anything odd to his gait or expression. A few people glanced at him, whispered, and went on about their business. His hair covered Adran’s symbol; a makeshift bandage kept his shoulder wound from bleeding through his fresh clothes. It was as he wandered off an elevator that he saw her.

Hyladra’s smooth expression hid the tension in her limbs to casual observers. She leaned against the wall, her arms crossed; her gaze stopped on each person who disembarked. Keith tried to hunch and slink through the crowd. But when he looked up, Hyladra looked back. Her thinned lips made him cringe. She knew something was wrong-- understandable when he hadn’t contacted her in days when he usually visited daily. He thought about staying with the crowd, but he doubted she’d relent. So he broke through the throng of people and walked straight toward her.

“I’d apologize,” he said to her dryly, “but I don’t think you’re interested in that.” The hall’s rumbling din made him think of Adran’s heaving breaths.

Her lips almost vanished under her thin-lipped frown. “You’re up to something,” she told him. “I don’t know what, but I know the signs. You were at the temple, and Wrin was there too.”

“She can’t know,” Volux hissed. “How does she know this? Thace, you said the cameras were out!”

“They are,” Thace said.

Keith shrugged to everyone involved. His shoulder burned. “How do you know I was at the temple? You’re not watching the cameras, are you?”

“A friend told me,” Hyladra said. “They posted it on Reedings.” Keith gave her a blank look. “It’s-- it’s a site where you post about your life?”

Social media. The Galra had social media, because of course they would. Keith thought about rubbing his temples. “Hyladra, I know you’re concerned, but this is…”

Hyladra shook her head. “It’s dangerous to go to the temple alone, Keith. Especially with Wrin around. His comments have been unsettling!” Her eyes softened, their gold so different from Adran’s sour, dying yellow. “I know you’re curious, but I’m worried for you.”

He didn’t know if he could trust her. Maybe she was there on Zarkon’s orders. But how much could he dismiss before he gave credit to her? “I know,” he said. “How did you know I was, uh, around here?”

“Walk away,” Volux said. “We don’t need more people.”

“Reedings.” Hyladra smiled lopsidedly. “Keith, the more you evade answering, the more worried I become.” Her smile vanished. “I’m not sure why you’re hiding things from me.”

It hurt. It was more hurt added atop the memory of what had happened. Maybe, he thought, she’d understand what he’d done. Maybe she could tell him what he’d done was right. She could be bloodthirsty and cruel and violent, but she was Hyladra. He couldn’t lie to her. “I can’t lie to her,” he said. Volux cursed. Thace sighed as Hyladra’s head cocked to the side, an eyebrow raised. “Come with me?” He offered a hand. It shook.

But she took it. She took it and the air in his lungs was like a balm to the worry in his soul. She walked beside him to Thace’s door. In his ear, Volux complained and cursed, trying to cajole him into compliance. But it didn’t work. When had it ever worked for Volux?

She trusted him enough to follow without asking questions. But she was wise enough to look at the people assembled in the room and frown. “What is going on?” she asked. Her grip on Keith’s hand tightened. “Did you send him to the temple?”

Thace looked exhausted; Volux’s arms were crossed and they glared at everyone assembled. “Ask Thace,” Volux said in clipped tones. “This is his project, after all.”

Hyladra’s gaze turned to Thace who froze. Keith tried not to savour it. His time under Hyladra’s glare would come, he knew. “It’s,” Thace started but there he stopped. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and became the officer he was supposed to be. “I’m leading an investigation into Clarion activity.”

Hyladra gaped “They’re-- they’re onboard?” Her grip on Keith’s hand tightened. She looked at him as though searching for injuries. There wasn’t anything visible: under Volux’s guidance, he’d used the temple’s baths to wash off the worst of the blood. His hair and clothes hid the rest. But her nose twitched, and Keith knew she smelled the copper. “...Who died?”

“Adran Dredav,” Keith said when no one else spoke. “He was a Clarion cell leader.”

Hyladra was shaking her head. “Why is Keith involved? This is internal strife.” She tried to lessen the blow with a soft smile, but it fell off her face after a moment. “And he is a guest.”

That seemed to strike Volux and Thace the hardest. “There weren’t many options,” Thace said as Volux looked away, shrugging. “My nephew became involved in the Clarions. Keith discovered that, and brought him to me.”

“And now you’re trying to save his treacherous skin by offering the hide of others.” Hyladra released Keith’s hand to stalk forward. “He made his choice. He should be under lock and key until his execution is scheduled.”

“Your thinking is appreciated,” Thace said coolly, “in the loosest sense. If only things were so simple. The Paladin has agreed to help, either way.”

“Did you tell him your nephew’s blood would be on his hands? Because Keith’s are covered already for your cause.” Her nose wrinkled. “He stinks of death. And where is your precious nephew? Hidden away from sight, protected from his treason?”

“He’s cleaning up Dredav’s corpse.” Keith flinched at Thace’s words. Hyladra noticed and took his hand again. A clawed finger stroked the back of his hand. “I understand that you favour the Paladin. But a momentary mistake should not condemn him to death and silence.”

“There’s making a mistake, and then there’s threatening the heart of the Empire.” She stared Thace down, as though she wasn’t a cadet and he wasn’t an officer. “Who was his target? He wanted someone dead. More than Keith. The Clarions wouldn’t care about such a singular target.”

Nobody leaped to respond. Thace was determined not to look guilty. It made him look it anyway. Volux was the one who broke: they sighed, and spun in their chair once before they planted their feet on the ground. “Wrin wanted to kill you, your friends, and anyone of rank in your vicinity. He’s a charming lad, as you can tell.”

“He should be executed,” Hyladra said just as Thace interjected.

“It was a mistake,” he said, voice rough. “He’s atoning for it. This moment, he cleans up the scene of an interrogation. He is willing to help the Paladin, and he’s bonded to me in the interim.”

“It is easy to apologize.” Hyladra stared him down. “It is more difficult to do the right thing in the first place. How can he even help the Paladin? Keith is healthy and whole.”

 _Shit._ It’d inevitably come out, he knew, but it was a vulnerable thing. She wouldn’t share, though. He knew that-- or at least thought he did. Keith chewed on his lip as Volux and Thace remained silent. He’d made his choice when he took her to Thace’s quarters. “I’m having problems with quintessence,” he admitted. Hyladra’s grip on his hand tightened. “Since I’m so far from the Red Lion, I’m losing my ability to speak Galran.”

“And _he’s_ donating?” She sounded appalled. “He wanted to kill Keith! Do you trust snakes to guard the bird’s nest? I had no opinion on either of you before this, but I will say that it is now _low_. Madness infects the pair of you.” She turned to look at Keith. “You recognize the insanity of this, don’t you?”

“It’s not ideal,” he hedged. She let go of his hand to throw her hands in the air. She hissed out something ugly. “I know it sounds bad, but--” But what? Hyladra knew now. He’d changed everything. He looked at her and saw genuine distress in her sunshine-yellow eyes. She’d help. Whether or not she was a plant, whether or not he’d made the right choice, the game had changed. “I don’t want it.”

Thace swore, but Hyladra pressed close. “It is your mind,” she told him. “If you don’t wish for his presence, it does not belong.”

“And who will replace him?” Volux asked. “Are you volunteering, or do I have to talk the Paladin into it again?”

Hyladra touched his shoulder with a light hand. It twinged. “It--” Her jaw clenched and unclenched. “I will do it. I have nothing to hide, and I will not let Keith be hurt.”

Keith tried not to shift. A part of him-- the standoffish part, the part that dipped into sarcasm when worried or off-balanced-- tried to say something. He stomped down on the desire. This meant something to her, and he could never be anything but grateful. “Thank you,” he said softly.. Hyladra gave him a hesitant smile.

“And now that you no longer need Wrin,” Thace said, “what will you do now? Will you kill him? Run to the Emperor?”

“The Clarions have killed thousands-- even children and priests. They set bombs in markets and temples.” Hyladra spoke quietly, like she feared drawing attention from something. “Insurrections, mutinies, and assassinations… There’s nothing the Clarions won’t do. You know that. Yet you defend him as though he conspired to play a simple prank. He is your nephew, yes. But did he not lose a right to defense when he kissed a Clarion’s hand and promised them his strength?”

Thace’s expression didn’t change from its blankness. “It easy to wash your hands of something you don’t understand. I am not asking for a clean slate: I am asking that we take advantage of the opportunity we’ve been given, and that we present a fair case for Wrin.”

“Fair!” Hyladra’s hissed click after that made Keith startle. It wasn’t a natural sound-- it wasn’t a human sound. She looked at him and sighed. “We can’t be part of this, Keith. Not without the Emperor’s blessing. Playing games with the Clarions-- there is risk, and then there is suicide.”

Thace argued with her. Volux laughed as they did. It was a mess: neither would budge. Hyladra stayed near him, and while her presence comforted, his thoughts did not. “Wrin is a dangerous fool,” Hyladra said; “trusting him is trusting a spider not to bite!”

“He made a mistake,” Thace snapped. “To kill him would be compound his folly! Let him redeem himself.”

“He can redeem himself in death.” Volux grinned, their smile ghoulish. Hyladra carried on. “If you cared at all for the Empire, you would see that your affection for Wrin is unseemly.”

“Your affection,” Thace hissed, “for the Paladin is unseemly!”

“Enough!” Both went silent. Keith breathed, his head throbbing. Too much had happened. “We give it a day.” Blinking stares were glued to him. “Wrin fucked up. But we’re on to something. We just got information on how the Clarions find each other.”

“Then we should go to the Emperor,” Hyladra pleaded. “He can do more than we can.”

“He can do some things in ways we can’t.” He sounded like a politician. “But we have a special opportunity: we’ve got Wrin, Volux, and myself. Wrin is our way to control the Clarions for the next week. Volux is our inside to the Clarions’ main base of operations. And I’m… bait, I guess.”

“Bait.” Hyladra slumped. “This isn’t wise, Keith. But if all you ask for is a day…”

He reached out a hand. She took it, at least, though her face was strained and sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m asking a lot of you.” But there was excitement too: he didn’t vocalize it, nor did he smile, but this. This was how he knew for sure he could trust Hyladra. It was awful of him and it was cruel, but it was the truth. He wanted to apologize again, but what was another horrible thing on the pile of ten thousand other horrible things?

Volux delivered the quintessence dose under Hyladra’s watchful eye. It sealed his wounds, and was as dizzying as the first dose. Lights sparkled behind his eyes, and he gaped up at the ceiling, his grip tight on his chair’s arm. But instead of the clean energy, it was tainted. Tainted by a sense of hate, a sense of urgency, and a thrill of grief. Laughter rang in his ears, but as those around him waited, nothing came. He prayed Wrin’s memories stayed away.

She refused to let him sleep in his cell. He slept in Thace’s bed after Thace refused to let him nap on the couch. Wrin returned soon after, his expression wide-eyed and distressed. He wouldn’t look at Keith, and Keith didn’t need to ask why. He stared at the ceiling for an eternity before sleep took him. Keith’s dreams were wracked by visions of shimmering leaf green blood and dimming gold eyes. Visions came of an endless desert and a smiling Galra child who offered their hand to him. He slept until the dark-moon morning before he left. Nobody was around to watch him leave-- which had been the purpose of his stay.

He could go to the library, and he was always hungry. But all were targets: a bomb tossed into them would cause a catastrophic failure of the walls and windows. He visited his cell, if only so that he’d be on the cameras there. Hyladra wouldn’t approve, nor would Thace, but he took some precaution by dozing in his bathroom. Any bombs tossed in would miss him. The nightmares followed him like spectres. His brain itched and his body twitched as he imagined the knife raining blows down upon him. When he woke, he stumbled to his feet.

He needed to talk to Zarkon.


	17. Chapter 17

There were no towers on Central Command. The station’s ring was smooth with only slightly curving domes whose glass allowed those inside to view the stars. The station itself was a hodge-podge of shapes, a confusing tumble of geometry that for all its variation, had no winding tower. Even if, he thought, it should. It would fit Zarkon. He might even like it. His flair for the dramatic was strangely high for a borderline immortal.

He walked the halls alone. Dangerous, yes, but he no longer cared. He was arguably accompanied by Wrin’s memories and his own nightmares. _You’re taking too much bread_ , his not mother scolded. _Leave some for your brother and sister!_ In another memory, a strange furry loaf snuffled around his feet. _We need to name it_ , his brother insisted. _We can’t just call it Bread._

He saw, a decade later, Bread’s funeral. He-- _Wrin_ \-- was older now, yet he refused to look anyone in the eye as they abandoned the corpse to the sands. Praying for animals was common, but it spoke of weakness to do it, his father said. His mother was more understanding. She let him spend the day at his cecu’s house.

His cecu was Thace. A younger, less worn Thace. His adobe house was built into the ground: a glass ceiling let the sun shine down into the orb-like home, and curtains hung loose from the ceiling. They could be drawn over the glass as needed. He sat in the main room, near the fountain, and worked on equations he couldn’t read now but came to him as easy as walking. 

His ceci wasn’t there. She was stationed in a far-off galaxy, his cecu told him, and it’d be a long while yet before she’d return to Gal again. He thought about asking, but it wasn’t his business. Their relationship was strained from the death of their son. Did Ceci Lalu blame Cecu Thace for it still? The child had drowned. It wasn’t unusual, even if it was tragic. He almost asked, even if it wasn’t his business, but Cecu Thace asked after Bread, and the conversation died.

Keith didn’t want to see this. He sagged against the elevator’s side. It would figure that the memories would be of death, Thace, and Wrin’s grief. He should be grateful it wasn’t the more vivid and intense moments of grief. His head fell back onto the metal wall. There lingered in his mind a shadow of sorrow. It tasted like dust and soured copper. It weighed him down like a heavy fog, and he wondered at how it dulled his mind.

Wrin wanted to die. Or maybe Keith did-- maybe he wanted to vanish to nothing, or sleep for a few hundred years. Not death, he thought. He just wanted a place to breathe where there were no threats and no promises of cruelty, from him or others. He’d done awful things since coming to Central Command. Death, torture, cruelty, and betrayal had defined him. He could blame the Galra around him. Part of him wanted to. But he’d done it on his own; pressured, yes, but he’d been the one to start Adran’s torture. He justified it to himself as necessary, that he was sparing Adran a worse fate, but by doing that, he’d taken on a responsibility and guilt he’d never wanted.

He was supposed to be the Red Paladin: the knight and pilot of the Red Lion. There was enough responsibility for that already. But he’d abrogated it. A Paladin wasn’t supposed to torture. A Paladin wasn’t supposed to cosy up to the enemy. A Paladin was merciful, righteous, clever, and strong. Being a Paladin _mattered_ in a way that being a cadet didn’t. The memory of the way Allura had looked at them when she gave them their assignments made his heart ache. He didn’t know her. Not as well as he wanted. But she carried her conviction like a shield. The Paladins were a force for good. Whatever the history of Voltron, whatever the history of the Alteans and Zarkon, the Paladins and the Lions were meant to protect, defend, and liberate.

Had he done any of that since coming to Central Command? He’d been far from a paragon of virtue. He’d been cruel to the grieving, killed the lost, and tortured enemies in the name of protecting himself.

What would Shiro have done? The thought numbed him to the faint jerks and jolts of the elevator. He would have figured out a way to navigate things. He wouldn’t have tortured Adran. He’d have been able to protect himself without killing anyone. Shiro, for all his skill at it, didn’t eagerly embrace violence. Meanwhile, Keith struggled to constrain his own viciousness.

Shiro wasn’t on Central Command, one of the few blessings of the situation. He didn’t want Shiro near the Druids. Shiro had enough trauma to deal with. But Keith knew, deep in his marrow, that Shiro would have figured things out.

The elevator stopped. He’d told it to go to Zarkon’s throne room, and when it moved, he’d assumed permission. He hadn’t seen many people around, but Zarkon had never seemed the type to take long naps. He tensed. Had the elevator been hijacked?

But the door opened, revealing the throne room, and there-- in the throne-- sat Zarkon. He looked unchanged, even for him. His clothes were the same. His expression had the same enigmatic smile, and the purple glow to his eyes made Keith think back to what he’d seen as the Voice took him. Why were Zarkon’s eyes purple? Why had Adran’s flickered to that shade in his mind? It was odd and odder. It gave him something to think about that wasn’t terrifying or detestable.

“Paladin,” Zarkon said.

“Zarkon.” Keith walked onwards the throne like he wore armor instead of flimsy cloth. “I’d apologize for waking you, but I doubt I did.” And Zarkon was the enemy, he reminded himself. Disturbing his sleep wasn’t an offense.

Zarkon smiled. It should have looked ghoulish, but too much had passed between them for Keith to truly revile it. At worst, it annoyed him. How would he ever articulate that to Shiro or Allura? He couldn’t. His nails dug into his palm, despite his sardonic smile back. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, so he said the one he wanted to say the least. “I want to ask-- I want to ask about Voltron.”

“Dangerous,” Zarkon murmured as his hand raised, his fingers alighting to his chin. “An interesting topic, but dangerous. What do you want to know? I cannot tell you everything-- I must have some secrets, and even I do not know the full history of Voltron-- but I am willing to spare some pieces of knowledge.”

Keith nodded, though he figured it was unnecessary.“You’ve said it’s old, that it has nothing to do with the war between you and the Alteans. Where did it come from? Did the Alteans make it? Why?”

Zarkon didn’t answer immediately. He stood from his throne, his cloak spilling out from the chair’s confines. Keith waited on the dias below, though Zarkon’s looming made him want to march up the stairs and face down the Galra. The instinct was a poor one. “How big is the universe?”

“...That’s a trick question, isn’t it. Unless you guys have figured it out?”

Zarkon smiled, thin-lipped as ever. “We haven’t. For ten thousand years of exploration… we have very little to show for it. We push the boundaries again and again, and each time, a ship returns with news of a strange race and stranger planets.” He stepped down from the dais. “I dreamed, once, of mapping the universe. But I increasingly doubt there’s an end. The gods would not be so kind. But now we must ask, Paladin: what lies beyond even the spaces we don’t know? Far, far beyond border planets or frontiers, there must be something. And there must be someone.”

Chills made his flesh prickle. “Something invaded, then. Or-- it was an idea of invasion.”

“Less an idea,” Zarkon said, “and more a reality. We are not the only ones exploring space, Keith. Before my time-- before Voltron-- things would drift in from the frontiers. Some were invasion forces; others were exploratory vessels, some of which did not grasp a sort of mammalian intelligence. I can only recount stories, Keith, but the atrocities of invasion and fear rocked our known universe. When fleets appeared, entire systems fell. There used to be a third race to our little triumvirate, has Allura told you that?”

No. But it was possible she didn’t know. “Who were they?”

“The Syf. A race of winged sky-dwellers who valued the grace and wrath of their world’s air. I have artifacts from their age: all revolve around an obsession with honour and revenge. Their tragedies were legendary-- as were their poets and playwrights who put them to paper. They were far from fans of expansion, but a lust for exploration drove them.” Zarkon shook his head. “They gained territory through devious deals. One didn’t make a deal with the Syf and lose nothing. Knowledge among others of that fact made the Syf prey on outer territories-- those desperate for assistance, and those who proved most vulnerable to the outside forces.”

Keith tried to digest that. It was genocide on a level that was almost incomprehensible. “And out of that, the Alteans built Voltron?”

“When fleets and foot-soldiers proved ineffective, yes. The Alteans were forced to bomb entire continents in the first war; in the second, when the worst outsiders came, entire planets were destroyed.” Zarkon sighed heavily. “I fear that the Syfs’ demise fuelled the Galran impulse for inwardness. When you are called outsider-- and I’m sure you have been by someone-- they refer to this event. While the Syfs took the brunt of the attacks, the Galra absorbed some fleets as well. It was left to the Alteans to provide aid.”

How had that changed the Alteans? To see a world with boundless possibility only to have it razed in flame. An entire race gone. There would have been pockets of survivors: the shattered remains of what had once been. In time, the Syf would die out. And then there’d be nothing but stories left. “The Lions,” Keith said hoarsely. “They’re not just machines-- we all know that. But there’s… there’s something more to them.”

The Red Lion had saved him from the Voice. He knew it. But that took more than a vague awareness of outside life or simple directions. It had to know the Voice’s power, recognize its purpose, and figure out how to thwart it. That took more than a mechanical consciousness. There was no database of semantic queries for that. There wasn’t an if-then statement for saving your pilot. Maybe the Alteans had figured out to take a million little rules and give the Lions the right codelets on their coderack. Maybe the quintessence the Lions were fuelled with helped. Or maybe there was something more to the Lions-- more than what Allura and Coran knew or cared to share.

Zarkon’s smile grew. “I was wondering,” he said, “when you’d ask me that. Those who’ve never piloted a Lion don’t understand. For some of my officers, the Lions were magic. For others, they were such advanced AI that they could never be picked apart. Few ever said they were both and none ever guessed their true nature. Tell me, Keith. Have you ever thought of the first Paladins?”

Where was this going? Unease filled him. “I have,” he admitted. But he could only imagine the mythology surrounding them. Voltron itself was considered a legend. What information would be left over from the pilots? Would their names even remain?

“You must understand,” Zarkon said, “that even when I became a pilot, information was… fuzzy. They became Paladins during a time of war, right as the last fleet of ships appeared in known space. The Alteans barely knew if Voltron could work. The designs were complex enough that they were largely produced by computers. In my time, attempts were frequently made to reverse engineer Voltron. It never worked: we knew little about the materials used, less about the programming, and nothing about what fuelled the Lions.”

“You said they’re fuelled by quintessence,” Keith said. “You figured it out after them?”

Zarkon laughed. It was an easy laugh, strangely carefree. “No, Keith, not quite. Quintessence was well-known then, though to a lesser extent. What baffled the scientists was how conscious the Lions were, able to make decisions contradicting their Paladins or even fighting on their own when needed. It drove the engineers and scientists mad. Why would the Lions take on pilots? How could they do such things on their own? It puzzled me when I became a Paladin. When the Black Lion reached out to me, there was something warm and lifelike to it. It wasn’t a simulacrum of a living being.”

Keith was tense. Something was wrong. Something was _off_. He’d felt it when he’d touched the Red Lion-- he’d had the same thoughts as Zarkon, though he’d dismissed them as paranoia. He listened as Zarkon pressed on. “It made sense,” he said, “when I was inducted. Such rites were done only by Paladins-- those current, and those lucky enough to survive to old age. Legends were passed among them.”

Zarkon paced slowly, but his movements carried a strange energy. “I have not told anyone this, Keith. No one except for you. Only a fellow Paladin could understand. When the first Paladins fought, they fought in machines. Machines dictated by programming, switches, and keys. They were-- they were far from what they are now. The Lions were confined by mortal limits. They could only move as fast as a mortal could tap a button or push a lever. Their design was magnificent: enough to save what was left of our universe. But what would happen in the next wave? What would happen if the next invaders were more advanced?”

Zarkon shook his head again. “Those seconds could not be spared, Keith. Which is why-- when the war ended-- those involved in Voltron’s creation asked a final sacrifice.”

“No,” Keith breathed. Zarkon’s bright eyes watched him. “That’s not-- they wouldn’t do that!”

“The Red Lion feels so life-like,” Zarkon said, “because she was once a Paladin. The first Red Paladin-- supposedly a Syf, though whether that legend can be trusted, who knows? But each Lion’s quintessence comes from their original Paladin. Their minds fuse with yours. They respond not just to your touch but your impulses and sub-conscious thoughts.” Zarkon laughed, airy and slightly crazed. “It is revolting, is it not? Horrifying. Yet when I think of the Black Lion, I ache for his presence. Voltron would not be Voltron without their sacrifice.”

The Red Lion had been a person. So many millennia ago, she’d been chosen to defend her world from an invading force. Then they’d asked her to die and live on in a machine-- a machine that would pass down from person to person to person, each of them dying in the end. “Nobody other than the Paladins knew this?”

“None,” Zarkon said. “Some felt the lore belonged to the Paladins only. Others dismissed the details-- the Lions were sentient, they said, but how would we know anything? They’d existed for five thousand years already. The remaining few included myself. We feared, Keith, that if others discovered the lore, they would ask us to do as the original Paladins did, whether for a new machine or to increase the power of the Lions.”

Keith crossed his arms. “...Would you have done it if they asked?” Keith shook his head. “I-- nevermind.”

Zarkon waved off his words. “There is nothing wrong with the question. I told you the truth, and I will grant you this: before they turned on me, I would have sacrificed myself on their request. I feared that more than anything else. That I would say yes when there was so much left to do, so many people I loved that were alive… It frightened me. I decided, then, never to speak of it to those who weren’t Paladins. But comes the question, Keith. If the Princess asked you to sacrifice yourself, would you?”

“I--” Keith’s arms tightened around his front. “They’ve lasted this long, haven’t they?” Zarkon chuckled, and Keith tried not to flush. “Okay, yeah. Evasive. But the only force we’re fighting right now is _you_. If-- if you were coming from Earth, I might.” What about people like the Balmerans? The Galra had taken over so much and hurt so many people. Stopping them was vital. But being trapped in a machine for millennia was horrifying. “But I guess you already are.”

“A faint incursion to your system. I care more about the reappearance of the Alteans than I do Earth. But what has brought on these questions about Voltron? I appreciate your curiosity, but it is sudden.” Zarkon tilted his head to the side, still smiling. “Did the Red Lion show you something?”

She had, in a way. Through protecting him from the Voice, she’d made him question her origins. But there was something more to it. “Nothing particularly unusual. Just-- more visions of your home planet.” Keith laughed. “I don’t even know its name.”

“Gal.” Keith blinked. “Most Galra attempt to hide as much as possible from those they see as outsiders. But you’ve been here for a long time, and your ceremony has made it clear that you belong.”

“I don’t know how to feel about that,” he admitted. “I feel-- this comes with responsibilities, doesn’t it? Even if I’m a welcomed guest. And I don’t know what that means when I’m an enemy combatant.” He snorted. “There was a class on this back at the Garrison. I should have paid more attention.”

“I doubt they would have covered a situation like this,” Zarkon said dryly. “You’re afraid that you’re beholden to the enemy-- that by us showing affection, you become complicit in our crimes. What does the party mean? There’s no certain answer to that, Keith. Some would want it to mean that you’ve become an honorary Galra. Others would call it a compliment and nothing more.”

“What would you say it is?”

Zarkon shrugged. “It is whatever you make of it. But I would argue that you owe us what you would a companion: politeness and a passing sort of care. If you see one of us injured, help us as we would you. But you have no responsibility for what we do, just as we hold no responsibility for your actions. And this agreement-- as all agreements-- ends on the battlefield.”

“Yet you’ve left me to find my attacker.” Keith didn’t bother to soften the statement. “That isn’t _guest-like_.”

Zarkon’s lips twitched, as though he hadn’t put Keith in danger. “Find the traitor, Keith,” he quoted himself. “And then I could bring you to the Lion-- a risky move on my part-- and even give you the Green Paladin’s family. I did not say I would not protect you from the second traitor. I promise that your cell has been watched, and that I have more guards stationed around the areas you frequent. I couldn’t arm you, and I still can’t, because I know you’re a clever man who’d do what’s necessary.”

And what have you found?” Keith challenged. “Someone-- someone let us escape the first time. And someone tried to kill me. If you’d caught the first, you’d have strung them up for everyone to see. The second, you would have told me.” Did he trust that? He wasn’t sure.

“I have spies,” Zarkon said, as though he hadn’t missed the Clarion activity on his main station. “They’ve found interesting things. But I will note, Keith, that you haven’t been attacked a second time.”

Keith didn’t nod-- but he didn’t shake his head either. “So you’ve protected me. And the Galra have treated me as a guest. I--” He breathed slowly. What did he owe Wrin? He’d tortured for him already, and other Galra had been surprisingly warm and kind. What did that mean in the end, though?

Zarkon paused, waiting for Keith to speak. But when Keith said nothing, Zarkon filled the silence. “You need not take me at my word. I am aware that there is reason to distrust it. But trust in your own perception: what reason would I have to lie to you? What would it gain me? For I can never truly earn your trust.”

Which was true. Zarkon would always be the Emperor of the Galra, and he’d always be the one who sent Sendak, who oppressed the Balmerans, who controlled the Druids who had terrorized and hurt Shiro. But here-- in the throneroom of the Galra Empire-- he was Zarkon the friendly, the helpful, the wise. He knew things that Keith didn’t; he commanded resources that Keith would never touch.

In another world, at another time, Team Voltron would have resources and manpower. Instead, it had a trio of cadets, an officer scarred by war, a stubborn princess, a moustachioed engineer, and a military washout. It wasn’t ideal. Just like it wasn’t ideal to beg answers from the enemy, no matter how kind they played at.

And yet, and yet, and yet. Beggars could not be choosers. “I know,” he said. “They-- they ask me for help, sometimes. Small things.” What a lie-- a magnificent lie. “But I feel like when they ask for advice on piloting or about Earth that-- that I’m betraying what I am.”

“And what are you? A Paladin?” Keith stiffened. Zarkon seemed to realize his misstep. “I say that not to antagonize you, Keith, but to point out how new the identity is. How new you are to this universe. What would you have done before your title? How would you have treated a foreign race-- one that came without Altean tales?”

“I’d have helped,” he admitted. But would the Galra have treated him so kindly if he wasn’t a Paladin? The Holts were prisoners. Shiro was traumatized. It wasn’t a good track record. But what did that mean for someone like Wrin? He was a cadet. He was no more responsible for Galran atrocities than Keith was for Earth’s. For all his twisted malice, wouldn’t he have helped a human cadet who’d got involved with something like this?

He’d be angry. He’d resent it. He’d take frustrations out on the cadet, being snappy and sometimes cruel. But he’d help. More than that, though, the Clarions posed a risk to those he cared about. He grit his teeth. This wasn’t what he’d wanted from this. He’d wanted Zarkon to play the villain, to be cruel, but instead he’d given Keith information and guided him.

Zarkon nodded slowly, as though contemplating Keith’s answer. “You should go eat,” he said. Keith stared at him. “You look worn and exhausted. Whatever challenges you have to face, it is always best done on a full stomach.”

That was too close to Shiro. Keith stood straighter, though, and he shrugged as he would to Shiro’s concern. “I’m fine,” he lied. Zarkon snorted, the sound as surprising as a bomb going off. “I-- you’re not supposed to snort. You’re an Emperor.”

“If I was a proper Emperor,” Zarkon told him, “I would not meet you at your whim. Being an emperor is a title without precedent among my people.”

Keith tilted his head to the side, his brow furrowed. “What titles did the Galra have before?”

“Warlord,” Zarkon said. “King. There were Mayalra as well.” He elaborated at Keith’s blank look. “Mayalra were local rulers designated by their rank-- those who reported to their warlords, who reported to the kings of their region. Kymin is descended from a Mayalra.”

It explained his wealth and status. He was a little lordling. It didn’t seem the titles still mattered-- other than Emperor. “There aren’t any legends about Emperors? Where did your title come from, then?”

“The title came from a legend.” What was the real word for Emperor, then? It had to be something that translated through quintessence. “Long, long before Voltron-- before we flew through space or air, there was an emperor. Emperor Jyan of the Thousand Peoples: she controlled an entire continent, according to legend, and spoke to the gods that came before the Voice. She tamed the elements, and things grew even in the harshest deserts. Strangest-- and greatest-- of it all, she found other continents and bound them together with a bridge of glass. Fanciful, as all Galran stories are, but interesting, isn’t it?”

“When did you become Emperor?” Keith asked instead. “How soon after the Alteans betrayed you?” Or you betrayed them first, he thought.

“A few years after.” Zarkon looked out the window of his throne room. “It was a… complex business. I was considered a hero, despite the Alteans’ propaganda. Things had worsened on Gal in my absence. With Alteans interfering with Galran government and demanding that they hand me over the situation worsened. It ended in my ascension.”

Keith wanted to ask more-- as he always did, really-- but Zarkon doled out information at his own pace, and Keith never wanted to push and lose the source. When Zarkon said again that Keith needed to eat, Keith took the hint. The elevator ride gave him time to breathe. He had a few hours before the deadline he gave to Hyladra would expire.

Zarkon would approve of Keith going to him. Unsurprisingly, that was a strong argument against telling him. What did he owe Wrin? A question he’d asked himself a hundred times. But maybe it was the wrong one. Maybe, according to Zarkon, he should ask what he owed the Galra. He owed people like Hyladra and Kymin. They’d been kind to him, Protecting them was the least he could do-- whatever Wrin’s sins.

He had a tablet still. He knew the buttons, and it responded to Hyladra’s name now that he had her rank. “We need to talk,” he told her. She looked wary on the screen, but agreed. Thace’s rooms were once again invaded, after a quick message to Thace. He sent one last message to Volux.

Neither looked pleased when they entered. Keith leaned against the wall, his fish from the investigation a day ago beside him. “What’s going in?” Volux crossed their arms, frowning. “Why is _she_ here?”

Hyladra eyed him. “I’m missing class,” she told them both. “I trust this is important, but I will not put up with snideness from you, Druid.”

“Don’t look so happy, Paladin,” Volux snapped at Keith’s twitching lips. “I’m here only because I want to be.”

Wrong, he thought. Volux had less control over this than they’d want. “I’ve thought of something to move the investigation forward.” It wasn’t a good idea, but it was an idea. “I need both of you to help.”

“That is ominous,” Hyladra said. She eyed Volux. “What does the Druid need to do that I can help with?” Her own arms crossed. “I am no expert in quintessence manipulation.”

Volux sniffed. “You certainly aren’t.” Their masked face turned to stare down Keith. “I doubt the cadet could assist with my work-- or that my work could conjure up the Clarions. Divining through the Voice might help, but I have yet to be trained in it.” The admission seemed to rankle them. “So this meeting may be pointless.”

“I don’t need your magic.” Hyladra smirked at the term-- Volux reared, as though the term _magic_ was an insult. It probably was. “I need you to conduct a service in the temple. And Hyladra, I need you to put that on Reedings. I need _everyone_ to know.” It was dangerous. More than the attack risk, the Voice was dangerous. It consumed its worshippers: he’d seen how hungry Adran was. Kymin had told him not to say the prayers. Volux had said that Adran had drunk from the Voice’s energy without an exchange or filter. It implied that the Galra exchanged quintessence with the Voice-- and that they could empower themselves without giving. Did it go the other way? Could the Voice feed on its worshippers without giving back?

There’d been rooms at the temple for Galra to rest in after the service and absorb the Voice’s energy. Were the services the filter? It made sense that the Druids would dole out the Voice’s energy while harvesting from the Galra. It would be an equal exchange. How did the Voice change the energy, though? What made the Voice’s quintessence more powerful and consuming than the Galras’? Even simple prayer, he thought, could start the exchange. He’d pondered the prayer Kymin told him and he’d weakened, gutted by the Voice.

He shook his head. “A service attended by me would bait them out, wouldn’t it?””

“It would,” Volux said, “but you may not get it in the way you wish. While Adran was an extreme example of a misuse of the Voice, the others will have used erya to commune with its power directly. You’ll need to be armed, or at the very least have a guard..” They glanced at Hyladra. “I don’t believe that Hyladra would be able to follow you unnoticed.”

“This is a mad idea,” Hyladra. “You’d have the attention of more than just the Clarions. Any little faction with a grudge or special xenophobia will turn up-- whether now or later.” She carded a hand through her fur. She had no hair-- but her long fur made up for it. “I could get the attention you need. But Galra warmth may turn scorching if you turn from the Voice after it.”

“So I’d be making a commitment until I--” What? Left? Escaped? “Until things change. I can do that.” Could he? The Red Lion had saved him from the Voice last time. What would happen if he sat in a temple during a service and spoke the prayers? Nobody could know. “The erya. Those aren’t common?” Those had been the problem, he thought.

Hyladra stiffened. “You’ve seen erya?”

“He has,” Volux said and sighed. “They’re hardly a dirty secret, Harim. Dredav’s Clarion cell had a dozen stashed with a negation orb.”

“And he said they gave them out as a mark of who they were.” Keith watched Volux intently. “What are they? He called them the Voice’s Eye.”

“They’re talismans. Rare and made from a special ore, they’re used mostly by my order.” Volux shook their head slowly, disgusted. “Those who are common in the Chorus can use them, of course. But they’re dangerous. They varying between a righteous one’s tool and a fanatic’s weapon. It takes them closer to the Voice than any commoner should be. While its startling effect on you is unusual, the Voice has always been hard to quantify and predict.”

“So I don’t touch any erya, and I’m fine--”

“You know how they find each other, though,” Hyladra said. “That they give out erya to their members. Couldn’t we insert a plant?” Her brow furrowed. “While we wouldn’t be able to do it alone, Zarkon could conduct an operation.”

“One last lure,” Keith said. “We do this one thing, and then we can drag them all up to Zarkon. If he kills Wrin, we’ve done all we can. For now, though, we need to head down to the temple. You good taking pictures there?”

“It’s not forbidden, if that’s what you mean.” Hyladra glanced at Volux. “I will do it if they will.”

“Controversy is nothing,” Volux dismissed. “But you must promise me, Paladin, that if you ever return to your fellows, you will share none of what you see.”

Keith hesitated. “I won’t,” he lied. Volux sighed, but they didn’t press. “Do I need to dress in certain clothes, or is this okay?” He motioned at the baggy and colourful clothes he wore. “Or do I need my Sunday best?”

The light teasing went over their heads. “What’s Sunday?” Hyladra asked.

“And why do you wear your best for it?” Volux added.

“Nevermind,” he said. They didn’t let it go all the way to the temple. His vague explanations earned snorts, and when he tried to describe Christianity after some more pressure, he ended up confusing himself. He’d never been to church. He hadn’t even read the Bible.

“He comes back to life?” Hyladra said, slightly awed. “What Druid helped him?”

“Nevermind,” Keith said, just as Volux began to muse aloud about how a Druid could do it. The conclusion by the end of the hall was that it could be possible, barring extreme mutilation and granting instant intervention by a Druid. Or maybe, Volux mused, Jesus had been a Druid. Keith was just grateful Lance wasn’t here. He’d be scandalized on behalf of his Catholic mother.

The pillows were neatly arranged throughout the main room, and the water pitchers he’d seen yesterday were gone. The front dais-- a jagged triangle that jutted out into the wider room-- was barren. “I’ll need to have the tenders bring out everything,” Volux said. “In the meantime, I trust you two can attract the right-- or not-- attention.”

Volux left them with minimal sighing. “How popular are you on Reedings?” Keith asked. Hyladra sprawled over a series of silken pillows. Her armor’s sharp edges were softened by the downy insides. Keith carefully sat on top of a red pillow. The insides were thick enough to keep his ass from the hardwood floor. “Does stuff go, uh, viral lots?”

“Less on the core stations,” Hyladra said. She held her tablet, her fingers tapping at light-projected keys. “Reedings is-- it’s about personal events. Lots of pictures, and it moves very quick. Something will go viral for two qxi and nobody will remember it in the third. I have a fair number of followers-- some on the station, others not.” She paused. “I’m worried about the latter’s reactions, but with the Emperor’s protection, we should be safe.”

That was slightly frightening. No more frightening than the Clarions, but still unsettling. Was he going to cause a disaster for Hyladra? Would people do what they did back on Earth and send threats, attack her, and hurt her family? “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “...How do the Galra handle negative things that go viral?”

Hyladra laughed. “I received a challenge to a duel,” she told him, “over a post about microwaves.” Keith blanched. She reached out and patted his cheek. “There’s nothing this post will get me that I cannot deal with. Now, smile and bare your teeth. The toothier the smile, the better to us Galra.”

Hyladra wrapped around him like an octopus. It was odd being cradled from behind. It was friendly-- nothing more, nothing less-- but not even Shiro had done it before. “Smile,” she said as she lifted the tablet. Its screen reflected Keith and Hyladra. Hyladra’s bright eyes projected a sort of inauthentic happiness. He forced his lips to curve into a smile. It hurt, if he was honest. He was used to gentle smiles or sneering smirks. Hyladra tapped the button. Something clicked.

She ruffled his head as she typed one-handed. From his position, he saw Reedings: it was a dark site with purple writing. Each post was a circle-- text wrapped around the posts, where images or video rested. Hyladra typed around an image of her and Keith. Each knot of text was a paragraph. In Hyladra’s post-- one among many visible-- she left a small note. A single orb that Keith struggled to read. The colours were bad for reading, he thought, but they had to be optimized for the Galra. They had to be nocturnal, but he wondered what drew them to the purple. What about the colour was so visible and eye-catching for them?

She kissed his cheek. He let his head fall against her shoulder, even as she slowly began to extricate herself from their pile. “You’re boneless,” she told him. “So lazy! Shall I fetch you a blanket and let you sleep through service?”

“Volux would come down from the dais to kick me if I did.” He rolled off Hyladra, letting her get up. “Is there anything I should know for the service? Is there a pause, or--?”

“To lure out the Clarions?” Keith wondered if she should be saying it so loud. “There will be. I sent a message to Kymin to play bodyguard. I’ll soak up the _attention_ , I suppose. Or ire.” Behind the dais’ curtains, things clunked and thudded. Someone swore. “Don’t break the datl!” Hyladra called out.

“Shit sand,” someone snapped. Hyladra laughed, though Keith suspected she’d have given them a solid smack if the person was nearby. More and more items were brought out. Keith listened and fiddled with his sleeve as he waited. Hyladra typed away.

“I can play a movie for you,” Hyladra offered when he began to examine the unlit candles. Only scattered lanterns gave the room a dim glow. “It’ll be a bit before anyone shows up.”

“I’m good,” he said, despite his curiosity. He suspected he’d have enough to absorb with the service. The tablet beeped. It’d been a constant stream of noise. “...How many people are responding?”

“Enough.” The tablet beeped again. She swiped the tablet’s side with a finger. The beeps didn’t happen any more. When one of the side doors opened, Keith jerked around to look at it. Kymin strode in, dressed not in uniform but clothes similar to Keith’s. The details differed, and a strange shimmery silver material edged the cuts and seams. Hyladra looked up to eye him. “Flashy.”

“But fitting,” Kymin said breezily. “I am a Yexin, after all. Mayalra too.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m aware. Take a seat before others come. The last thing we need are your fans crowding in and causing problems. This is an operation.”

“So you said in your message.” Kymin dropped down opposite Keith’s table. They formed a triangle, headed by Kymin who twisted around and smiled like a sleaze. Maybe someone would find it charming, Keith thought. “Hunting Clarions is no easy business.” Something dark skittered in the shadows of his face. “And then a service atop it.”

“I can do it,” Keith said. Kymin nodded, but Keith suspected he didn’t really believe it. “How many people do you think are going to turn up?” Hyladra’s eyes were glued to the tablet. Kymin looked away to stare at the stage. “Do I need to brace myself? Am I going to have to do anything but sit here?”

“Follow my lead,” Hyladra said. “It’s going to take some movement, but nothing exhausting. Anything more than that, and Volux will guide you through it. Every service is held as though we are new to the Voice-- for, in many ways, we are.”

“Do I have to sing?” He cringed at his wobbling voice. He didn’t want to sing. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Singing meant knowing the words-- and he very much did not know the words.

“Hum,” he was told. A door opened, and more people wandered in. A few he recognized, including Elin: they waved at him, and he waved back. The movement behind the curtain died. Heat flooded the room as more bodies packed in. Galra sprawled on pillows and curled together. A low drum filled the room. Keith watched the curtain. It rippled under the onslaught of sound. Fingers scratched at his hindbrain, and colours tugged at his vision, insistent and warm. Poison flowed through his veins, he thought, and no cure was coming any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been INCREDIBLY slow with replying to people's comments and I'm really really sorry about this. Thank you all for being so patient-- it's appreciated, and I will reply to everything by the end of tomorrow!
> 
> As always, you can find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com. <3


	18. Chapter 18

He rocked under waves of sound and colour. A hand rested on his shoulder. A soft voice whispered to him; he didn’t know if it was the Voice or Hyladra, not until clawed fingers lightly pinched his skin. He jerked to wakefulness. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Don’t show alarm.”

He tried to breathe through the smell of incense. His lungs itched from the hazy blue smoke. “How long was I out?” he said, stumbling through the words like he wandered through a dark forest’s brush. He looked around slowly, careful not to make a scene. Galra already watched him, their curious eyes glowing in the dim light.

“A minute,” Hyladra murmured. “The atmosphere is powerful. You would not be the first to be overwhelmed.”

“The colours--?”

“She’s reaching out to you. Not unexpected. You are new to Her.” Hyladra laid a hand on his leg. “Do not look to the sky if She takes you. There are things we were never meant to see.”

It was a terrible thing to say. Not only did it make him tense, it made him worry about how he’d looked to the sky the last time. Had he opened himself to something? He wanted to say he didn’t fear the Voice, but he did. It was powerful in a way Keith would never be able to fight. At best, he could avoid it. Yet here he was-- right in the belly of the beast, by his own volition. The drumbeat quickened, like his heart. When the curtains parted, he stared at the series of drums, amphora, and roaring torches that lined the stabbing part of the triangle. Volux stood in the centre, atop a dais. Their mask was fixed to their face; their glowing gold eyes peered through the mask’s slits.

A half dozen Galra manned the drums. They were dressed in solid purple, blending into the purplish stone that acted as the backdrop. They beat the drums in unison, their mallets wrapped in cloth. The drums were low and throbbing. He suspected they beat in time with Galra hearts.

Volux held no books or scrolls. They spread their arms wide, a knife in their left hand. “As the sun beats upon us as we do the drums,” they declared, “we gather to listen to the greatest song among the sands. How beautiful is the Voice! How gracious is She to let us join our voices to Her! For we dream of Her, and in our dreams, the song continues.”

The drums were hit once and the room went silent. “Who here has listened?” A roar went up from the watching crowd. Volux laughed, the sound warm and ecstatic. “Your people call to You, Voice! We sing, we pray, we live for You. A day without You is a thousand days without water.”

There was no chapter of scripture. There wasn’t any prayer book to refer to. Volux spoke about the Voice-- about how grand it was, how strong its song was, or how desperately the Galra hungered for its song-- and the crowd called back. Cheers, roars, and frightening howls erupted from those around him. Keith kept his mouth stubbornly shut, but he watched Kymin and Hyladra’s reactions with a keenness he hoped they didn’t notice. Kymin wasn’t the most enthusiastic. Not to say he disdained the responses: he called back with the others, after all. But amid the froth and howl, his voice was quieter than the others, and his expression calm.

Hyladra was a sharp contrast. Her teeth were bared in a gleeful smile, and her voice was loud and wild. “My dreams sing back,” she called back; “when Your song reaches me, I am more than what I was!”

The drums started again, and Volux’s voice loudened. “We welcome a new voice to our Chorus. The Red Paladin-- _Keith_ \-- joins us, his voice strong and full of hope. He was brought to us by the Harim, and accepted by the Tuvani. Stand, Keith. Stand, and listen to the Chorus.”

 _Not fucking again_ , he thought. He reluctantly got to his feet. The Galra in the room turned to face him. He stared Volux down as the Galra burst into song. It was a rowdy howling chant, full of joy and warmth, and Keith refused to wither away in embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye, Kymin was smirking. When the song ended, Keith forced a relieved sigh back.

Volux was still watching him. Behind the mask, he knew they were grinning. They’d regret that after this. He didn’t know what he’d do yet, but it’d be something. Volux motioned from him to sit, so he did. He tried not to bury his fingers into the pillow below him. It was an admittance of weakness he couldn’t afford.

Volux continued. “He will become part of us this morning-- before the sun truly rises, and all join again to the Chorus. Let us wash away our problems and thoughts; let us clean ourselves of guilt and sorrow. For we must come to the Voice as ourselves, nothing more, and we must come to the Voice as ourselves, nothing less.”

The drums rumbled as Volux picked up an amphora. It wasn’t an amphora, really-- it wasn’t Greek-- but it was the closest to the pitchers that lined the triangle’s tip. They were diamond-shaped with a hand on each side. They weren’t made from clay, but instead a stranger material, something shimmery and glass-like. It reflected opalescent colours in a prismatic way. Inside, a dark liquid waited, giving the material’s bright colours a dark shadow.

Keith sat straighter, trying to get a view of the triangle’s very edge. Sand edged the triangle, he realized, and Volux tipped the amphora’s blackish liquid out from the amphora’s curved lip. In the candles’ and torches’ lights, it turned silvery. What was it? Because it wasn’t water. It was too opaque for that. It hit the sand, and smoke rose, joining the bluish incense. It smelled of summer wind and heavy rain.

Volux began to chant. Their single voice reverberated, despite the cloth walls. They spoke in a language distant and inhuman; it sung on vocal chords bent and taut in ways a human’s could never mimic. High and clear, he imagined it echoing over desert sands and rock. Stranger and stranger.

Incense and the amphora’s liquid mingled, creating a shimmering wall of smoke around the triangle. Volux carefully patrolled the edge, lifting and pouring each amphora. Around him, Galra hummed and swayed to Volux’s chant. It was an odd meditation-- helped by the wall of smoke that began to inch out from the dais. The Galras’ humming accompanied the drums. The hums crawled under his skin, chilling his blood and making his bones itch. His hand ached. He dug his other hand’s nails into the flat of the pained hand. The sharp pain hid the duller ache.

The wave of fog and smoke hit him. The warm incense rose above a wave of cold. Keith breathed in the full aroma of the outside. It brought him back to his days in the desert. On the best days-- the good days-- rain would drizzle and thunder would crack, and Keith would sit on the patched together porch and drink in the peace. Nobody wandered the deserts when it rained. But the animals did, and little sprouts of green burst forth from the ground. They were little signs of life in a region everyone thought dead.

Was it like that with the Galra? Did they savour the rain like he had? Beside him, Hyladra breathed deep and sighed, interrupting her humming. Maybe, he thought, the smell had a particularly soothing effect on Galra. They were desert-dwellers, after all, and maybe it drew them to the surface from the homes he’d seen in Wrin’s memories.

Voices whispered. It was a multitude, far from the raging oneness of the Voice. They spoke in plain Galran. They spoke of tedious tasks, love, fights, and a faith bolstered by the Voice’s touch. I’m scared a woman said; I’m afraid to be alone. I’m angry, a Galra thought; my friends have betrayed me. A voice-- so like Hyladra’s, he wondered if it was hers-- spoke softly, almost lost among the dissonant clamour. _There is evil in this room, Voice, and I pray you defend us from it._

Tortuous, long, unending: those were the thoughts that washed over him. It was a communing not with the Voice, but instead the Galra themselves. Keith slumped at the onslaught. The pillows cushioned his collapse. Their silkiness pulled him away from the smells and sounds. He breathed into them, his breath’s heat absorbing into the material. His eyelids drooped.

He dreamed. Blackness encased him in a glittering sea of stars and void. He floated, aimlessly, from nowhere to nothing. Warm air flowed into his lungs, as hot as the room he’d been in; it flowed out snow-cold. Weightless and directionless, Keith peered from behind half-closed eyes. He half-expected to see other Galra with him, but nobody was there. Was this normal? Was it a stage of the service? He smelled the summer heat and heavy rain still. “Hyladra?” he whispered.

“SHE’S _not_ **here** ,” someone said, each word a different voice. One was a woman crying. Another, a man snarling. “ **You** _came **to**_ **us**.”

His blood turned cold. It couldn’t be. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

A thousand voices laughed. “Closer,” it said in Kymin’s voice. “Closer, closer, closer--”

“Enough,” Keith hissed. “This… why?” Why did it care? Did it talk to every Galra? He tried to stand straight, but gravity failed him. Voices whispered, though he understood nothing.

“ **Listen**. Watch. _Join us_.”

The world vanished in colour. The voices were less numerous, and he recognized them from the temple’s service room. At this moment, he realized, they were the only ones communing. What of his other ventures into the Voice, though? The voices had been unending in number.

He looked around, each wall of colour indistinguishable from the next. Only the slight strain in his muscles let him know he was moving. Everything was silence. Keith tried to take a lone step, but he didn’t feel his leg move and his foot touched nothing but air. Soft wind brushed against him like a cat.

It pushed at his legs, urging him on. Yet walking felt impossible: how could he walk when his limbs were numb and air surrounded him? The wind became more and more insistent, and he tried to push forward. Nothing came closer. When he stopped, the wind appeared again, and faint whispers filled his ears. _Keep going_. He didn’t want to. But he didn’t think the Voice would let him go free. Or would it? Was this a choice? Maybe this is where the Voice would be let in. If he followed its orders, it’d reach into him.

Where was the Red Lion? Had it exhausted itself from the last intervention? He’d relied on it too much, he thought. He’d bet that it’d defend him from the worst and he’d lost already. “Shit.” He tried to look around. But the Galras’ colours danced between each other, a thousand different shades of colourful rivers. “I don’t want this, Voice.”

It didn’t reply-- it didn’t need to. Its silence told him it didn’t care. The wind strengthened. It lashed at him. Go, it urged; go before it ripped him to pieces. He still hesitated. Hands grabbed his shoulders and nails as sharp as broken glass dug in. He grunted in pain but refused to move.

What would happen, though? Would the Galra know he refused to follow the Voice? He hadn’t expected something so psychically communal. What would they say? Would it tip off the Clarions that something was wrong? The nails dragged down from his shoulders, down to his shoulder blades and into his lower back. He didn’t stifle his shout.

The wind dipped into his clothes, pulling him forward by the collar. It wrapped around his head, and when he gasped, it darted into his lungs. He tried to breathe through the wind. But it was like he’d swallowed sand, and he gagged and choked as he lifted his hands to scrape at his face. A wall of air covered his mouth. His fingers turned wet as he panicked. Iron filled his nostrils.

The Voice was trying to kill him. His vision blurred and darkened. His heart thundered. Blood smeared over his lips and cheeks. _Please_ , he thought. The Voice had to hear him. _I’m sorry. I’ll go. Let me breathe_. **_Let me breathe_**.

“Let me breathe,” his voice whispered; “let me breathe, let me breathe, let me breathe!” Voices laughed, the sound lacking malice and containing only a high joy. “Let. Me. Breathe.”

The air receded. He gasped. He wobbled, but there was nowhere to fall. His voice was gone, no longer mutilated by the Voice. “I’ll go,” he said. Whether it was a lie or not, he couldn’t tell. He tried to stagger along as blood dripped from his jaw to join the vortex of colour. The wind nipped at his heels, like a rowdy hound. He shouldn’t be walking. But what would happen if he died in this world? Would it destroy his mind? What about his soul or quintessence?

None of the Galra were traumatized by opening a simple connection. Hyladra was fine, if a bit bloodthirsty. Kymin was an odd duck but far from evil. He hoped, at least. The only ones hurt from their communing with the Voice were the Clarions. So long as he kept away from erya and had Volux around, he should be safe. Warm blood itched as it slid down his face.

When his foot touched the vortex’s wall, a jolt darted up through his bones. Keith startled back. Silky and wet, it was like acrylic paint. The wind pushed harder and harder: he suck in a deep whistling breath and fell through the vortex’s wall.

The silence turned to screams. It was the tornado from last time. This time, though, he joined it. His thoughts wiped away as wind ghosted through him, peeling away who he was and dragging it into the sky’s howl. Minds wove into his. Buffeted by the wind, he caught glimpses of those who shared his mind for moments. Glimmers of gold shaded his vision: the sparkles rose, high and away and to somewhere else. To the Voice, he thought.

Time died. He watched Galra children play among rocks, their clothes a white chiffon-like material that fluttered in the night breeze. They giggled and laughed and Keith watched a pair of children capture a lizard and pet it. The memory vanished, replaced by a sandstone room, wood furniture, and pillows. Galra sat around a table whose centre was dedicated to a clay box. Keith approached it, invisible to those within the memory; heat radiated off it, and he smelled cooking meat and vegetables.

One of the Galra-- their long hair wrapped in a complex bun, finished with a long needle that made him think of cacti-- lifted the oven’s top. Keith leaned over a shorter Galra’s shoulder to peer into the stew. A metal ladle scooped up chunk of darkened meat and browned vegetables. It smelled sweet as honey and faintly sour.

Gone, gone, gone, torn away from Keith, it vanished. He sat among a thousand other Galra, all dressed in uniform; he sat where someone else should have been. At the front, on a dais, a trio of Galra waited, standing at attention. The silent room stretched out for a mile across. Its glass ceiling was darkened, protecting them from the flaming sun high above.

Keith blinked. The scene changed. He was in a square room, with a bed and desk. His fingers hovered over the projected keyboard. The comfortable uniform he wore stunk from the day’s work, though what that work was, Keith didn’t know. He looked around to see pictures of family, a messy bed, and a slightly crooked plant that looked like it needed a lot more sun.

He woke to cold air and faint gasps. The ceiling was dark. The lanterns and candles were mostly out; Keith tilted his head to see the doors open. “Hyladra?” he whispered. “Kymin?” Neither responded. Nobody did. He struggled to sit up, but when he did, he saw most Galra still sprawled on the floor. He turned to the dais to see Volux watching. He relaxed at that. If the Clarions hadn’t followed them into the communing, they could have killed Keith while most everyone was out.

His body sagged in exhaustion. It was like something had ripped him open and plucked out all his energy. He thought about falling back to the pillows and sleeping. Tempting-- but the Clarions were around, and he needed to lure them out. He groaned as he slumped against the short table beside him. He almost knocked over the water pitcher someone had placed there while he was out.

He waited. Volux watched him as he did. There was something tense to the Druid-- like they wanted to ask a billion different questions. Not that he could blame them if Volux did: Keith himself had dozens. He almost poured a glass of water but he had second thoughts. What if it was poisoned or drugged? So he waited. When Hyladra stirred, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Guh,” she managed. He swayed over to the other table and gave a heavy pat on the shoulder to her. Hyladra startled, her head jerking over to look at him. She groaned. “Tired?”

“Very,” he admitted. “Is it always that exhausting?

“Usually.” She hauled herself up “I hope your visions were good.” She reached out and tugged a lock of his long hair. “When Kymin’s up, you need to leave through the back door. Go to the fourth door on the left. You won’t be unusual as there’s always a quick break in the service after this.”

Keith looked around. A few people were awake, but none of them were paying attention. One Galra focused on pouring out some water. Her hand shook as she lifted the pitcher, and she muttered a curse under her breath. “We’re supposed to take in the Voice’s quintessence, aren’t we?” He looked back to Hyladra to see her blink.

“Yes,” she said, “but only in the second half. For now, we examine the loss we live through without the Voice. What is life with it? How would we survive? What did we taste, see, and feel in the memories of others? Those are the questions we ask ourselves.”

Keith tried to digest that. He’d seen odd things-- memories, really, so disjointed that they had to come from many others. There’d been no preaching of morals in Volux’s speech, only a simple acknowledgement and praise for the Voice. Maybe the morals were supposed to come from the communing. How easy, he thought, would it be for someone to feel sympathy for those they knew on such intimate levels. He tried to suppress a shudder. Had any of them seen his memories? If they had, what had they seen? The thought that a Clarion may have seen his thoughts made him shudder.

When Kymin roused, half the room had woken. Kymin dragged himself to Hyladra and him. “He came out okay?” he asked Hyladra. Hyladra nodded and Kymin turned his gaze to Keith. “I hope you have enough energy left to tangle with what we’re here for.”

Keith wasn’t sure about that, but adrenaline could get him through a lot. “Likewise.” Keith stretched, letting his joints crack and hoping for a refreshing surge of energy. He got a slight jolt, nothing more. He poured out a glass of water for himself and offered some to Hyladra. She took him up on it with a smile. They sat in silence as more and more people woke.

When the last person roused, Volux stood. “Disperse,” they told the crowd; “disperse and contemplate what you have seen.” Kymin held out a hand to Keith, and they stood together, leaving behind Hyladra who watched them go. They were the first to stand and the first to leave. Keith made sure to pause at the door and wave back at Hyladra. People watched him, and Keith pretended to smile like his nerves were making his stomach turn.

The halls looked the same as ever. Kymin led him into a side room, and paused as Keith panted. His limbs shook. He wondered if he’d fall, but Kymin’s presence pressed close, steadying Keith. “Can you fight?”

Keith considered that. His vision kept listing to the side, and his feet weren’t quite sure they were on solid ground, but-- “I can.” But he had to concede something. “I’m going to be a bit useless if they have anything above knives.” He sighed. “I didn’t know things would be so fucking _exhausting_. You guys do this every day?”

“Some,” Kymin said. “I only go a few times a week.” He stuck his hand into his pocket. A sickle-like knife was pulled out, its sheath not disguising its shape. “I have two knives. I want to make it clear, Keith, that you need to return it before others see. I’m sure you’ve been lectured by others about how they can’t arm you, but I will not fight Clarions alone.”

He took the knife and unsheathed it. Leather covered the grip, though glimpses of silver peeked through. The wicked blade waved back and forth. He slipped it into reverse-grip and nodded. “I’ll help as I can. How long do you think we have? I didn’t see anyone readying to tail us.”

“It takes a few minutes for people to disperse.” Kymin went to the door and flicked a few buttons on it. “They’ll know we’re in here. We won’t be joined-- I’ve set it that those with sense won’t come in.”

They waited a few minutes before they drifted to their positions. Keith didn’t sit in the middle of the room-- doing so would make him the perfect target for those who carried a gun. Instead, he was to the side, beside the door but out of direct view. HIs reverse grip would let him deliver a quick stab to the Clarion who led the charge. Kymin sat in the middle, a tablet in his lap. He was tracking when the cameras would go out, because they inevitably would. The Clarions wouldn’t want a trace of their actions to come back to them.

Keith wondered how much force he’d be able to put into the opening stab. Not enough-- if they wore armor, he’d have to hope he managed to hit them in the neck or face. Then it’d be a matter of pulling the corpse in before anyone noticed. How popular was this hall? It couldn’t be too popular, otherwise Volux wouldn’t have chosen it for them.

“Cameras out,” Kymin reported. His expression didn’t change from its flatness. “Last image showed no one in the hall.”

“Where’s everyone congregating?”

“Volux is leading a prayer session in another hall-- Hyladra used her usual powers of persuasion to get most there. A few are resting in the other halls. We’re the only ones here.” Kymin shook his head. “For now. We’ve got a minute or two before they arrive, by my estimate.” He eyed Keith’s wobbling arm. “I hope you’re prepared.”

“I wish we had armor, to be honest.”

“Same,” Kymin said. “But we’ll win anyway. Are you prepared for what comes after?”

His arm’s shaking increased. “I’ll take it as it comes.” The door beeped then buzzed. Keith forced his arm to raise and freeze, stuck in the perfect position to swing down and lash out. Should he pray? But he didn’t even know what to pray to. He doubted the Voice’s prayers and hymns were anything familiar to him, and he’d never cared much for Earth’s religions. The door’s lights flashed blue and the doors buzzed. Blue was the Galra rejection colour, then. He glanced at Kymin, who looked unbothered as he drew a gun. Kymin nodded to him as the doors flashed yellow and whooshed open.

A stream of lasers streaked toward Kymin. They were silenced-- only the smell of ozone alerted Keith. As Kymin rolled away, sprinting to the side of the room, Keith lashed out. His knife hit flesh. A Galra gargled. The blood gushed down, the knife stopping the artery from spitting out the blood in sprays. Keith grabbed the Galra’s shoulder and yanked. It took two tries: the first just made the Galra list.

Lasers zipped by. One singed his sleeve. Another sailed past his ear. He ripped his knife free and ducked behind the bleeding out Galra. Their body absorbed several shots before Kymin began to lay down fire. It gave him a chance to slither free from the heavy Galra’s limp weight and bolt towards the Galra crowding the door. He wasn’t as fast as he wanted to be. His knife ripped down someone’s arm, from shoulder to wrist, and they howled. Their gun fell to the ground. Keith thought about taking it, but that would take too much time. He threw himself at the next Galra, ducking beneath the butt of their gun to tear at their stomach. It went deep-- too deep, he realized, when things other than blood began to pour out. He tried not to vomit.

Someone struck him in the shoulder. Cartlidge cracked and his bones ground, but he used the momentum to spin on his heel and slash at the attacker. A laser bullet zipped over his stomach. His brain panicked. His free hand darted down to his stomach, fearing the worst, but only blood touched his skin.

When he reached for the next Galra, he met air. Then the crowd that bottle-necked the door pushed forward: he was dragged with them. A hand clenched down on his shoulder and tried to twist the joint. He let his legs fall out to escape the grasp. But he found it hard to gather the energy to stand. He wobbled partway up. A swift kick to the back had him falling.

Kymin let loose a wave of shots. It saved him from a bullet to the back of the head. He still clung to the knife, so he got to his knees and began a hunt for hamstrings. Someone he sliced twisted around in time to take a shot. It burned into his shoulder. He gagged on a scream and dropped the knife. Adrenaline fuelled him up: as the Galra fell, he ripped their gun free. His sprint to a cabinet was tailed by laser fire.

He didn’t use guns. Not out of disdain, but he’d always been more efficient with hand to hand and knives. He lifted the blaster and peeked around the cabinet’s side. The Galra had stumbled to a retreat behind an overturned table. A few bodies littered the doorway-- most were Keith’s work, but others looked as though they’d been trying to flee when Kymin caught them.

Keith leaned against the cabinet heavily. Chunks of it were missing-- they’re flown past his head as long splinters, and he smelled burning wood and paint. His shield wouldn’t last long. He leaned out from behind the cabinet and took a quick shot at the top of the table. Splinters flew. A Galra screamed. “My eyes!” she howled. “My _eyes_!”

HIs stomach flipped, even as he wanted to be proud of his plan. He didn’t want to see the aftermath. “Surrender now,” Keith called out, “and put down your weapons.” A volley of lasers splashed against the cloth walls and cabinets. Small fires were breaking out, and smoke filled his nostrils already. No alarms were going-- was that the work of his team or the Clarions?

This wasn’t working. They exchanged fire again and again; nothing came of it. There couldn’t be more than three Galra behind it. He and Kymin could continue the shoot out-- but there might not be any Clarions left by the end. Yet if they charged, one of the Galra could escape. How could Keith cut off the escape? Rapid fire on the area wouldn’t deter the desperate. He needed his knife. It sat on the ground a meter away from the door’s entrance.

He fiddled with the blaster. The Galran symbols were unreadable, and he didn’t want to risk it exploding or becoming otherwise unusable. Keith fired a bolt at the table’s bottom. It singed the wood floors but knocked the table back into the crouching huddled Galra. Shouting rose from behind the table; Keith fired again, though he had to duck back when a wave of fire blasted over the table’s top edge.

The cabinet rocked under the assault. It almost fell, but Keith rammed into it, keeping it upright. “Kymin!” The Galra’s fire picked up, but the Clarions were focusing down on him. Keith reached for his pockets, searching for anything helpful, but all he came up with was a palm-sized tablet, a wrapped candy, and a bit of extra string from his clothes. He thought about calling Kymin, but the Clarions would hear if Keith spoke loud and Kymin wouldn’t understand if he spoke quietly. If only, he thought, he could fucking _write_.

Keith dumped the blaster. He waited for the volley of bolts to pause, for the Clarions to see what their work had done, and when the bolts receded, Keith darted from behind the cabinet. His waning strength made the sprint slower than usual, but the Clarions seemed surprised at his movement anyway. He stumbled into a roll as he approached the knife. His hand flailed out and grabbed the knife by the cross-guard. Part of the blade dug into his hand. Red blood splattered onto pools of green.

His roll ended with him on his feet. His gaze lifted to meet the face of the Clarions; his heart stopped as he looked in Gevin’s face. Gevin jerked back as Keith charged them. He kept low to the ground and focused on the two other Clarions who he didn’t recognize. Kymin knew Gevin-- it’d make him easier to interrogate without torture.

He jerked to the side as a pair of bolts sailed toward his head. His nostrils burned with ozone. He threw himself into the first Galra, his knife slippery in his grip but set on the Galra’s neck. His vision clouded in a spray of green. He didn’t wait, even as he felt the fluttering pulse of the Galra beneath him. He looked up as he landed on the next Galra to find only a single gold eye looking at him. He cringed back at the gaping hole. Instead of stabbing them, he bashed them on the head twice. She fell back, dazed, and Keith hoped he’d done the right thing.

Gevin had scrambled away, leaving him open to Kymin’s fire. Kymin had his blaster’s tip pressed against Gevin’s head, and the pair stared each other down. “Traitor,” Kymin hissed.

Gevin bared his teeth. “Turncoat,” Gevin said, “to your rank and to your people.” His eyes flicked over to Keith. “What would your forebears think of you coddling this abomination?”

“They’d understand that the Emperor’s will is the only will that matters.” Kymin’s clothes were burned in places, and green blood trailed down his side, where a blaster bolt had gouged his side. The fires around the room were growing. They’d need to finish this soon-- before the worshippers returned and before the fires spread. “Did you think you could kill the Paladin so easily?”

Gevin stared at Keith. His squat features were ugly with hate. “If I won’t have the privilege of killing him, another will. The clarion call to those with sense will take hold. You will never be able to trust that those around you are fellow turncoats.”

“Who recruited you?” Kymin demanded. “You won’t have the grace of dying a martyr. Your answer will only determine whether you will be buried on Gal or sent into space.”

Gevin laughed. “Wherever my corpse is, I will always commune with the Voice.”

“Not if your name is Blighted,” Kymin said. Gevin stiffened. “You know what happened to the Yexin traitor. Do you think he still sings with the Voice? Or that he shares with the Chorus?”

“And you think you can stop the Emperor from Blighting my name or stopping my burial.” Gevin laughed, the sound crazed. “So arrogant for a slave!”

“Give me the name, Gevin. Who recruited you? What are your contacts on Gal? Who is funnelling the Clarions to Central Command?” Kymin pressed the blaster into Gevin’s skull. Gevin refused to flinch. “Tell me, or I’ll release a Druid upon you.”

Gevin hissed and snarled. “False heathens who believe in the Emperor more than the Voice. Their tortures would be a reckoning and purification of my faith.”

Kymin seemed to slump. “...I trusted you. As a friend.”

“And that was your mistake,” Gevin said. But his voice was soft, despite his harsh words. “You’re a clever man, Kymin. You know there is no path with Zarkon. His way is madness and corruption. He is a cancer that has spread to a billion hosts, and then we’ve called it a cure.”

“And you wish to drink from the Voice directly,” Kymin snapped. “As though that is less mad! I have seen what it does, and you wish that for all of us?”

“To be sustained by the Voice is a gift.” The blaster cracked against Gevin’s face. Keith cringed back, but all Gevin did was laugh. He grinned at Keith, his eyes bright. “You think a simple name will save you from us? There are hundreds, _thousands_ of us here. You dine beside us, you fight beside us, and pray beside us. When the call comes for us to strike… You will not be prepared.”

A knife punctured his lower neck. His vision went darkened as he struggled to breathe. Behind him, the Galra he’d spared laughed, as wild and crazed as Gevin. The knife slid against bone as she pulled it out-- leaving blood to gush down his throat, into his lungs. Keith gagged as he slumped, but he couldn’t speak. The knife had gone through his voice box, he realized; it wasn’t simply a lack of air. He tilted his head up to look up at Kymin. Kymin’s face was frozen in horror. Keith fell to the ground. When the world went black and his mind went quiet, he knew he wouldn’t wake up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I've tweaked my update schedule! I'm now updating on Tuesdays 9PM-11PM Atlantic. I'm sorry about the wait for an update this week!


	19. Chapter 19

There was nothing. Nothinginess stretched for an eternity. There was no colour or sound or feeling. It was like sleeping. Keith breathed, his mind emptying to tranquility. Thoughts of where he was or what had happened vanished. There was no space; there was no time. He only existed. If he’d had his senses about him, he might have wondered if this was the afterlife-- if death drained people of who they were as they waited for judgement. But he had nothing of the sort. All he had was soothing nothing.

Maybe he’d eventually be judged. God would pluck his soul from the endless black and determine his fate. Or maybe Anubis would weigh his heart, or his dharma would be judged and his future sealed for the next life. He didn’t get to find out.

The nothing receded. He breathed as he hadn’t before. Warm air pressed against his fur; a light blanket rested over his body. His closed lids fluttered, as though he was still dreaming, but he saw the sun’s rays through the glass. His bed sat in the shade, but sunrays danced around his toes. He grumbled as he pulled the blanket tighter. The soft featherbed beneath him enveloped him in warmth.

“Wake up,” a woman said. A light finger tapped his nose. The smooth pad tickled his skin. He wrinkled his nose. “My flower, you are wasting the day.”

His eyes fluttered open. “The stars were up late tonight,” he said in a girl’s voice. He stretched. HIs joints cracked deliciously, and he lazily turned his head to look at an older Galra woman. Long maroon hair framed her strong jaw. “Vivi, I want to sleep!” The girlish voice carried a petulant whine.

“Flower, if I let you sleep any longer, you’ll miss class.” His _her_ mother pulled at the sheet’s corners. He grumbled as he pushed himself up. Light underclothes kept him from being bare. “Weren’t you looking forward to learning sums?”

“Yeah,” he said, dubiously. “But I’m tired.” His mother laughed. It was the surest sign of a no. He gave in, letting his feet touch the cool stone floor. “...What’s for breakfast?”

“Baked fish,” his mother said, “with fruit and fried kelp.”

He brightened. “And a treat?”

“A thiwye,” she said. Images appeared in his mind’s eye: it was a rolled ball of flower petals, nuts, and chunks of fruit moulded together by a sticky, evaporated cream. It tasted sweet and salty, and it crunched deliciously between the teeth. He bounced to his feet and bolted to the bathroom. His claws clicked against the floor.

Lightning lined the stone ceiling. Clear white light illuminated polished black stone, harvested from the volcano regions. He liked the cool feeling against his fur when he bathed. No matter how how hot the sand, the stone stayed cold.

He picked up a small tin with a bar of soap that smelled of smoke and flowers. It was his father’s soap, but his father never minded when he used it. His fur soaked up the soap, and he brushed the sand through his short hair until it gleamed in the washroom’s lights. He writhed in the sandpit, careful to leave no spot untouched by the fragrant sand. It was fine sand-- sand from the volcanoes, a luxury his parents indulged in. He buried a foot deep and squirmed inside the hole; dust puffed up, and he coughed at the earthy smell.

When he stood, his long fur shone. He shook his body one last time, letting the now dirty and oily sand free. It’d be raked up later by his mother, and when the sand’s earthy smell dimmed, it’d be replaced. For now, though, he scrubbed his teeth with a rough paste and brushed it into his mouthful of fangs.

His uniform fit well, having been measured out a week before. His boots were stiff, but he enjoyed the clack of them against the stone. His mother beamed at him. They ate together in the sunlight. When he finished the fish and fruit, his mother gave him a pair of thiwye and shepherded him to the door. “Eat them before class,” he was told, “and be sure to come home quick for afternoon rites.”

The door was in a tunnel that led progressively higher and higher. The door was thick metal with bulletproof glass. A scanner opened the door to the right eyes. When the door hissed open, he bounded out into blustery sand. His town was smallish-- better than the outposts, but nowhere near the capitals. He popped a thiwye into his mouth and chewed as he passed the upper mounds and their doors. The temple rested far away, near a sloping hill’s peak. A tall triangular prism, its roof was stained glass. Its clay front had carvings of animals and the Voice, all painted in sunset colours.

There were above ground buildings. They were atop the small rising hills, between the lulls and away from where the sandstorms would push the sand. The roads between the buildings-- abobe, whitewashed in places, but mostly orange-- were strips of flat purple stone. He hopped between stones, humming as he did. His academy was near the temple. The long, round building had thick glass windows. Faces peered down from them, all of them students in uniform, though their ages varied.

People zipped by high in the sky on their bikes or in their cars. Military drones hovered, keeping a watchful eye on the town’s happenings. They wouldn’t find much of anything, really: Marlok was a quiet town, known mostly for the metals mined from the ground. His parents dabbled in the industry: his mother read fortunes for the miners, and his father predicted the best spots to mine while working with geologists. “The future is as bright as silver,” he’d been told since he could speak. “It will make you wealthy, if you do it right.” He wasn’t sure he believed it-- but enough people did, so what did it matter? He reached the academy’s front gates and pressed up against the scanner. It sang a quick tune, and the doors swung open. He stepped into the rock yard and popped the last thiwye into his mouth. It tasted of ice cream, he thought, though he didn’t know what ice cream _was_. Where had the thought come from? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He opened the academy’s door and stepped inside.

He stood at attention among a crowd of Galra. A screen hung high above-- a necessity when they were in such a large building. On screen, the Emperor spoke. He sat in his throne room at the Sonata Palace-- gold and red surrounded him, all of it shining from the camera lighting. He wore his armor, and he watched as the man’s serious face darkened as he spoke of threats from the outside world.

“They martial forces at our borders,” the Emperor declared. “They wait for our moments of weakness-- for the Clarion to attack, for the feeble among us to question our strength, for exhaustion to set it. But they will find none of it, for the Galra are strong beyond imagining; when they strike a blow, we tear them limb from limb. When we are tired, we push harder. When we despair, we have one another-- we have the Voice.”

The Emperor paused, as custom demanded, and a roaring cheer from those assembled filled the silence. He joined the cheer, his voice husky. He bit back a grin, knowing it’d be spotted and he’d be punished for it. The Emperor began to speak again. But he heard screams in the distance, and those around him shifted. Nobody left their position: to do so would disrespect the Emperor, and it was probably an unhappy child anyway.

The screen flickered. Another face took form-- one behind a mask, a mask similar to the the Druids but inverse. “You have been judged,” the woman said, “and found lacking. May the Voice destroy your names and quintessence, leaving us purer for it.”

Officers shouted, but their competing voices drowned each other out. Rank and file cadets whispered, but it didn’t matter when an explosion ripped through the western half of the building. Its shockwave knocked down people like dominos. Even when he braced for it, the force and the person beside him knocked him clean off his feet and into the next cadet. He ended up beneath a pair of larger cadets.

Nobody screamed. There were whimpers nearer to the west, but everyone else knew better than to panic. To scream or cry would admit to the Clarions that the attack had worked. Whatever spies they had in the eastern half of the building, they wouldn’t know anything more than what the media and rumours told them. Even still, panic choked his heart. He knew people near where the explosion had happened, and he knew there might be others waiting for people. He looked up to the opaque glassy ceiling. His sharp eyes noticed cracks here and there, but what drew his eye the most was a small flickering light in the centre.

“There’s one on the ceiling!” he shouted. He struggled free from the pile. “They’re going to collapse the building!” The light froze. He saw the light die before he heard the explosion-- or the sound of falling rock. He blinked.

“I don’t know about the Lions,” Elin said. “They’re supposed to be magical, but my father said the Lion didn’t even move when he was taken there.” Elin’s nose wrinkled. “Ten thousand years and thousands of Galra, and nobody’s ever been good enough.”

“I will be,” he said. Yet his confidence was hollow. He was good at what he did-- better than most, and notable for a dozen reasons. But the Red Lion had never cared about that. Even those who cozied up to it received nothing in return. He’d read stories from generals about approaching the Lion with gentle words and promises, and how they’d lost the respect of their peers for a time and embarrassed themselves in front of the Lion and Emperor. Would that be his fate? He shook his head. “Pass the thiwye. I’ve got a final to study for.” A round carton of thiwye was pushed along their shared table and he plucked out a sourberry thiwye; its taste kicked him into wakefulness and he pulled a tablet close. He tapped it and its bright light as it turned on almost blinded him.

He was at home again. The officers were stingy with time off, but he’d had a few days, and he hadn’t seen his mother in years. She sat in the sun room, a pair of charts to either side of her and tablet in the centre. “Their child was born three days ago,” his mother said. “They’re uncertain of a name, and they wish to know the child’s luck.”

He looked over the charts from the side. One was a star chart; the other, one for volcanic activity. “Is it bad?” he asked. Despite his rank, he’d never been able to read the charts clearly. At best, he could hazard a guess.

“Mildly,” his mother admitted. “It won’t be good news for the parents, but with the proper precautions, the child will be fine.”

He considered that for a moment. An auspicious name-- in accordance with the data-- would solve most problems. While it sometimes signified to the more gullible who to avoid, more often, people cared little. Beyond, of course, the hint to their own personal fortunes: it was taboo to look at your fate, and everyone took whatever hints they could from their name. “I wish I could read the charts,” he admitted.

His mother shook her head. “It’s better that you can’t,” she said. “Of all the things I dreamed for you when you were but a child, this was one of the last. The Emperor has long argued that ranks should not matter, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“Were you not allowed to be anything but a Harim?” He frowned at the charts. It couldn’t be true-- it wasn’t like that, and hadn’t been for millennia.

His mother refused to look him in the eye. “Your grandmother believed that the family art should be passed on, and when she died early, I was left to find a trade. I could have joined the Emperor’s forces-- but I’ve always been frail and sickly. And so, it was this or more menial work.”

“You’ve made a small fortune at it,” he said. “And you married Father-- another Harim!”

“And I love him and I love you,” was the reply, “but if I could have done something else, I would have. I dreamed, as a child, of being a doctor. But the fates are written in the skies and earth, and who am I to question it?”

”You questioned it with me.” He said it lightly, as though it was simple teasing, but there was too much wrapped up in those words for it to be. “Did you dream of serving the Emperor as a doctor?”

“There were fantasies.” She turned away from her charts. “What’s brought on this curiosity? You always wanted to join the Emperor’s ranks. Has something changed your mind?”

_All around him, darkness waited. It was hard to breathe-- there was so much dust and shattered rock. He didn’t dare move. Between the rocks, shattered bone and blood acted as its mortar. Bodies of friends and comrades were crushed around him. He heard someone breathe, shallow and ragged, and the darker part of him hoped they died. There was only so much air in their bubble, and they’d been in the middle of the building. They wouldn’t be the first to be rescued._

_Slow breathing, he thought. No panic. A sharp rock had dug into his left leg. His pants were lapping up the blood, but soon the floor would be slick with it. Above his head, rock creaked against rock. One shard propped up another-- a slight shifting of the foundation would crush him. He’d die, he mused, from thirst, bleeding out, suffocation, and being crushed. If he were less well-trained, he may have indulged in a hissed curse. Instead, he prayed._

“I’m not so easily swayed,” he told his mother. “I should visit the academy-- if only to say hello to my old teachers!”

His mother smiled. “Go,” she said. “But pick up my package of kelp and vegetables from the ration hall, will you? I’ve been too busy these past few days to get it, and we’re running low.” He brushed his nose against hers and tried to ignore her comforting purr. She knew something was wrong. He’d never tell her, though. His station was as much her desire as his-- why ruin it for her by confessing fear?

The streets were cleaner than he remembered, though they were less busy to make up for it. The sun glared down, and he breathed in the desert air. It was best at night-- when the moons came out, the sand’s purple tinge glimmered. Even better, the military vehicles calmed, and all that could be heard was the whistling of bugs and the howls of whatever creatures slithered in the deserts. He looked to the sky and sucked in sunny air.

The station shook. He grabbed onto the door’s handle. Other people fell-- he watched Elin fall back, over onto a desk. Alarms blared. Explosions rocked the station again. He listened to metal rip and the shrieking whoosh as the void sucked the air from the halls. His feet tangled together when he lurched for the emergency button. Already, defensive measures were being implemented: the door’s cracks sealed. Glass smashed beneath his hand. The yellow button was cold against his leathery palm. People were crying. The metal walls creaked under the strain between space and keeping the air in. The vents above sealed. He slid down the wall, his vision darkening. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t talk. He needed to sit and wait. People would come: they always did. He closed his eyes and tried to dream of his house on Gal.

There was a human on Central Command. They were a rosy white, mostly hairless, and their eyes were strange. They didn’t glow, rumour sad, and you could see the pupil and iris. Elin gasped at that. You could, he mused, technically see the parts of a Galra’s eye, but it needed special equipment. Quintessence and biology hid them from typical sight.

“They took the Red Lion,” Elin said in a hushed voice. “And they worked with the Alteans! How hasn’t the Paladin been executed?”

He shook his head. “The Emperor has his reasons.” The Emperor might want to coax the Red Lion away from its choice. After millennia of loneliness, he’d likely find it a hard task. But it was better than leaving an enemy to have such a weapon. Information on the new threat was scarce-- the Alteans were back, yes, and they’d attacked Central Command with the Lions, but where had the Paladins come from? Where had the other Lions been? All he knew was that things were becoming dangerous and strange. As days passed, he took to carrying a dagger with his assigned arms. If something were to happen, he would not be caught off-guard. It didn’t help when the Paladin turned up to the training room, dressed in Galran clothes and escorted by an officer. His name was Keith.

His eyes snapped open. Sand cushioned his back, warm and dry; he breathed in desert air, similar to what he’d lived in back on Earth. Up in the sky, the Voice waited. His hand flew to his neck. There was no knife or gaping wound. “Where...?” He shook his head. His legs were weak to the bone. They ached, and he tried to push himself up to check them. Yet his arms were the same. He fell back limp. Sand puffed up at the sudden weight of his head, and he tried not to cough as he choked on gritty sand. His eyes drifted closed. In the distance, someone else gagged on sand. But when nothing but silence followed the sound, he discarded it as his imagination or an animal.

Where was he? The answer was Gal, but he doubted Gal had such a colourful sky outside of the Voice’s dream. He’d been attacked in his last memory-- likely killed. Had communing with the Voice brought him to its version of the afterlife? His chest tightened. Would the others ever find out what happened to him? What would the Galra do with his body?

His breathing hitched. He wasn’t going to cry. He shouldn’t have spared that Galra. He should have demanded better arms. He shouldn’t have watched as Kymin interrogated Gevin. But it didn’t matter. It was over now, and maybe that was for the best. He breathed slowly, focusing on the warmth that surrounded him. Whatever came, he’d deal with it. It’s how he’d got through so much on Central Command. And if nothing came-- if this was it-- he’d gladly sleep for eternity. Already, he was drifting through the memories of other Galra, even the living ones like Hyladra. Would she be able to see his memories? Would they meet in the afterlife? He hoped for both.

He tried to stand again, but it’d taken all his strength to wake up. The wind blew past. With it came a dozen voices, only one clear: it called out his name, frantic and desperate, and he wondered if that was Hyladra seeing his body. Guilt overwhelmed him. She didn’t deserve to go through this.  Not if those visions had been her memories.

Her voice called out again, closer this time. He opened his eyes. “Keith!” Her voice turned high. “Please, I’m here! Call back!”

He tried to lift his head. The weakness remained, though, so he turned to his voice. It flagged under the weight of his exhaustion. He croaked out something that resembled her name. His second try was no better, and he coughed up sand on the third. “Hyladra?” It was quiet but rough. He tilted his head to either side, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

The sound of her boots sloshing through the sand warned him of her approach. She came up from below the hill he lay on. Her uniform was mussed-- parts were missing, as though they’d been discarded. Her frantic face eased when she stood over him, looking into his eyes. Her opaque gold eyes radiated a sense of comfort that he suspected was only a projection. “Keith,” she said, relief making her voice ragged. “Keith!” She fell to her knees and crawled beside him. Her hands traced the path his had-- and she found no wounds, despite her concern.

“I died,” he said. “Please tell me you didn’t too.” It would mean the Clarions were loose. It’d mean his death had been pointless.

Her hand traced his face. Sharp claws were light against his skin. “I didn’t.” She rocked back, away from him, and looked to the sky. “But you did. I-- Kymin contacted me. By the time I got there, you’d bled out.” She looked into his eyes, as though marvelling at their life. “We… Keith. Did you see anything before you woke up?”

Was she real? Or was she part of a dream? He didn’t put it past the Voice to create a world where everything was okay-- where everything continued as though he’d lived, and he’d go through an eternal life where he did things over and over. But he didn’t know the Voice’s doctrine well enough to judge that. All he had was a mistrust of the Voice and enough science fiction stories to make him nervous.

“I saw you,” he said. “Your memories.”

Hyladra nodded. “We took you to the Druids. Volux said they couldn’t help, but that Haggar could.” Her face took on unease. “...We’re bonded now. That was needed to-- to bring you back from the Voice.”

So he was doomed to the Voice’s grasp now. He forced back any grief at that-- he had better things to worry about. “You brought me back from the _dead_?”

She seemed to think things over for a moment. “Sort of,” she returned. “I’m not sure what Haggar did, but you had a pulse before I was put under, and you’re here now. And frankly, Keith, that’s all that matters to me.” She ran a hand through his long hair, as though searching for blood. “I just need to bring you back.”

“And what’ll come back?” Keith asked. “I can barely move in this world. And the Voice--” His mouth clicked shut. She believed in the Voice, after all. “...Sorry. How do we get back?”

“You’re upset,” she said. “You’re upset that you came to the Voice and not-- I don’t know what you believe, but it’s not where you wanted to be. You’re not who you want to be. But your people have stories of people coming back to life, don’t they? You told me some of them.”

There was a world of difference between Jesus and what Haggar had done. But how did he communicate that to her? She had no frame of reference for Earth’s culture. She didn’t know the tales of vampires or vengeful spirits who returned to life. She didn’t know the thousands of stories about humans playing God, creating monstrosities that should never have existed. Abomination is what he’d been called before. For once, he believed the word.

“I’m not human anymore,” he said instead, “but I’m not Galra either. Humans don’t come back to life, and Galra aren’t like me. Yet the Voice took me to this place.”

“You communed with Her,” Hyladra told him. “That’s what matters.”

Then he’d sacrificed his humanity without thinking-- without realizing the consequences. Wherever humans went when they died, he’d been cut off from it. Would distance save him? Likely not. “How do we get back?” He needed time to think. Would he get it? Probably not.

She reached over and clasped his hand in hers. Warm leathery skin wrapped around his soft flesh, and claws prickled against him. “I’m going to take you there,” she said. “Don’t fight it, okay? Even if it hurts. That’s what Haggar told me to tell you.”

“Promising.” He intertwined his fingers in hers. “Thank you for coming. I should have thanked you sooner, but things are… overwhelming.”

Hyladra’s lips twitched into a smile. “You don’t die every day,” she said. “You’re still weak from the Voice’s harvest, but when you’re back, you’re going to feel wonderful, I promise you. Haggar has used so much quintessence, I swear it’s almost replaced your blood!”

“It’d have to,” he said. “The knife cut into an artery, didn’t it?” She nodded, and he tried not to grimace. He didn’t really want to talk about it. The thought of what had happened made his skin crawl. “Let’s go back.”

Hyladra closed her eyes. Glimpses of glimmering gold were visible as her lids twitched. He watched, spellbound, as the world fell away around him. It was blackness again-- but he felt it this time, felt it as metal took form beneath him and machines’ hum filled his ears. He breathed cool air. Sand vanished from his tongue and hair. His eyes were closed, yet in another world, he saw Hyladra.

“He’s coming back!” someone said. “Volux, add more quintessence.”

Hyladra’s gold eyes sparkled. The gold intensified from a sunset gold to the yellow of the rising sun. “Hold him down before he hurts himself.” He felt nothing, though. Nothing but cold and waves of pleasure as the world filled with yellow. The sterile air scratched at his nose. He wanted to sneeze, the sensation tickling his senses.

But as his eyes inched open, something tore inside. It was like something stripping away his insides. He didn’t hear himself scream, but he felt the hands clench around him and press down. Fire turned the gold world dark with its violent flames. Skin ripped apart. His body itched. He was flayed from the outside and his organs and veins scourged from the inside. Around him, voices panicked. Hyladra was shouting. Kymin hissed at him, fierce as he was on the battlefield, and through the fire’s shadows he spied Thace watching with a dawning horror.

He prayed to black out, but relief never came.


	20. Chapter 20

His bones snapped and his skin stretched under their push and pull. His vision vanished, turning to black. When his hearing vanished, he knew he was screaming only through the stress on his throat. Cold hands touched him: One stroked his cheek. Yet the coolness faded-- his skin itched, and the hands’ touches were muted. Someone tilted his head to the side when he gagged on blood and whatever else his body was throwing up. When his sight returned, he gaped.

There were roughly ten million colours that humans could see. Some could do more-- tetrachromacy was a thing-- and some could do less. Keith was average. He wasn’t colour blind and didn’t have weak eyesight. But he wasn’t amazing either: they’d done testing at the Garrison on people’s attributes, from reaction time to malic acid production to advanced eyesight training. He knew Lance had done well on the test, if only because the man had bragged about it more than enough.

So there were natural limits to human vision. There were psychological ones too. You couldn’t dream up a new colour. There were physical limits to the imagination: how can you conceive something you cannot physically perceive? It was like trying to think of a new sensation or new sound. Everything took root in what the human mind could already perceive. When Keith heard new words, sounds, and ideas from the Galra, his reference was what he knew. A gheron was a cow. This new dish tasted like apple. The weapon was a space kris. Even the Alteans were space elves.

When he opened his eyes, he saw colours he had no name for. The ceiling carried a strange shimmery tinge, dark and cosmic. He jerked back, his morphing muscles twisting and spasming at the motion. His jaw was open and slack, and puffs of light air flowed in, cooling his aching gums. Blood filled his mouth still, coating it like oil on water.

His scalp stretched. His eardrums ripped. He twitched and shuddered. “Hngh,” was all he managed, and he only knew the sound from the hum in his throat. Someone tried to soothe him. Their voice inched towards clarity the more his scalp stretched and the more his eardrums tore. He heard in two places for a moment-- Hyladra chanted something almost like a prayer, while Kymin whispered words he didn’t understand-- and his brain froze, refusing to process either source.

The sounds stopped from the middle of his head and moved up higher. He didn’t have the strength to stop a ragged sob from coming out. It hurt. Everything hurt, and he wasn’t sure when it was going to stop or _what_ it was doing. He tried to lift a hand to touch his head. It twitched and went limp. A surge of energy rushed through his body. It sharpened the pain to a razor and cut his body to shreds as it poured down from his head to toes.

Then the pain stopped. The euphoria that came after intense pain left him panting. The machines’ whirring sounded loud in the sudden silence. His eyes took in the crystal clear image above him. The metal’s glimmer shone brightly. He caught the light’s dancing movement over the material, and he cocked his head to the side, spellbound. In its reflection-- warped and strange-- was a face so like his own yet different. A glowing gold eye had replaced his dark left eye. It was Galra-yellow, quintessence yellow, and he saw no pupil or even movement of the eye. The other was just as strange: it glowed a dark purple, a different shade than Zarkon’s but still the same colour.

He shivered. People were talking. His ears-- his pale, flat human ears-- were now large arching cat ears. His pale, smooth skin was covered in dark, purple fur that looked almost black in shadows. It was thick and lustrous, as well-manicured as it was sudden. Sweat dampened it. He breathed, his lungs strangely empty of pain. “Keith?” Hyladra whispered. “Are you-- are you there?”

He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to hear his voice. Would it be changed? And even if it wasn’t, would he hear it differently? He shook and tried to swallow a sob. Clenching his teeth revealed his sharp teeth and he winced as a tooth dug into his gums. The blood already in his mouth had dried to flakes; the infusion of fresh blood melted them to an iron slurry. He lifted a hand to his mouth, and his fingers pulled away wet with red and green blood. His claws were dark as his fur. A hand brushed through his hair. Someone pressed close. “Say something, please--”

I’m a freak, he thought. “Why,” he asked, the most pressing question now. Why was he a Galra? Why were his eyes so deformed? He looked at the ceiling again, his reflection unchanged. His face was so familiar-- so close to what it’d been. His long mauve hair had a white streak at the temple, so similar to Shiro’s it left him shuddering.

Kymin brought a black blanket to him. It fluttered as he flicked it free and billowed when he snapped it down from the corners. It landed on Keith, hiding some of the changes. Not the worst ones, he thought; he looked into his face and unease washed over him, too close to uncanny valley despite it being his own face. Keith pulled the blanket close.

“Keith?” Hyladra said, her voice agonized. “I don’t know why.” She glanced behind her, at Volux, Thace, and Haggar. “We’re… I’m sorry.” She pressed against him, her arms looped around his neck. He didn’t look away from the ceiling’s reflection. “High Druid, what happened?”

Haggar waited near the machines. “Quintessence reveals the truth, Cadet. Nothing more-- nothing less.”

“It means,” Volux said, “someone dumped their spawn on Earth. Only the Voice knows why. He’s an orphan, isn’t he?”

He was Galra. But he couldn’t be. “You’ve examined me,” he said hoarsely, wincing at how rough his voice sounded. Its tattered nature was too keenly heard with his new ears. “You would have _seen_.” Keith turned to look at the assembled Galra. “I was human. I wasn’t-- I wasn’t like this.” Not even in secret, he thought. People would have noticed. Doctors would have said something. Things had changed his body, and they’d needed to do more than tear a disguise away.

Haggar’s sharp look at Volux showed she agreed. “Hiding his nature would have been-- it would have been a task for someone with my skill. And I promise you, Paladin, that I would never abandon a Galra child to live without their people.”

“It would be a crime,” Thace said. His hands were clasped behind his back. He stood ramrod straight, his head held high. Yet his voice shook, as though rattled by what he’d seen. “No Galra would abandon their children to a place like Earth.”

“Then it was the Voice,” Hyladra said. “None match the High Druid in skill, and everyone believed him human. So the Voice must have… this must be its toll for what it did. For giving Keith back.”

“Possibly.” Haggar came closer, a hand reaching out to hold Keith’s face. She tilted it from side to side, examining the new fur and features. ”The level of quintessence we injected into your-- his-- system has never been done to a human before. Yet no other species has transformed from a bond and quintessence, so why would a human?”

Keith pulled away from Haggar. “How did you bring me back.” He smelled her faint soap-- it was antiseptic and harsh, the kind of thing for healers and doctors. His nose itched and burned. “You-- you did something more than quintessence. More than asking the Voice. You had to have. Otherwise you’d bring back so many others--”

“You think it’s easy?” Haggar said. Despite the words, her voice was calm and gentle. “The amount of quintessence we used was enough to power a planet for a month. I beseeched the Voice as I never have-- and the Harim battled through the Chorus to find your voice among it. There was nothing _easy_ about this.”

And they’d done it because he was a Paladin. He could angst over that-- how if he’d been anyone else, not a drop of quintessence would have been spared. His hands, though, itched and his gums ached, and that dragged his mind away from that grief. He’d come back from the dead through Galra means and had become a Galra. Not only had he broken what felt like immutable laws for Earth, he’d been forced through the Voice to abandon his heritage. He wasn’t a Galra. He was human.

It didn’t matter now.

“The Voice took my quintessence when I died,” he said. Haggar nodded, and he suspected she already knew his concerns. “I communed with the Voice, sure. But it’s been-- it’s been _obsessed_ with me. Whenever I’ve been near it, it’s nipped at my heels and begged for attention. It wants me. Why?”

“You know why,” Haggar told him. “But you don’t wish to think of it overmuch, do you? She hungers for you because of your bond with the Red Lion.”

“But why does it matter?” Keith pulled the blanket closer, as though it’d hide his vulnerability. “The Red Lion’s shielded me from the Voice-- but only after it chased me. Are they enemies?” He doubted it, but what other reason did the Voice have?

“She cannot possess you as She wishes.” Haggar reached out and tapped under his left eye. “When a Galra is possessed by the Voice, Her quintessence fills them. It finds the thinnest membranes, and its light spills forth.” Her finger moved lightly over his fur to his right eye. “And yet, with the bond to your Lion, She is unable to completely take you. So your eye is what Galran eyes are without the Voice: purple.”

“She’s partly taken me, then.” Keith tightened his grip on the blanket. “I suppose that’s what happens when you die.”

“It is,” Haggar said. “But it won’t be permanent.” She pulled away from him, her warmth almost missed. “The Voice’s presence is like the ocean. Her waves-- Her power-- rolls in and recedes. She needs to embrace you again to fill you when the quintessence wanes.”

Keith shook his head. “It won’t happen. Dying once was enough.”

“Then I’d advise against baiting the Clarions again.” Haggar turned away from him to tap away at a nearby machine’s keys. “The Voice will be reluctant to return you again if you refuse to give yourself over.”

He focused on his breathing. This was the petty vengeance of a-- what? A god? An amalgamation of the Galra? Hyladra was near, but even her presence couldn’t comfort him from the most pressing question. “Is this reversible?” Keith frowned when Volux snorted. “I know this is really fucking funny to you, but I’m _not a Galra_. I’m human. I belong to the human race.” Hysteria edged his voice, frantic and shaking. “I’m not meant to be this.”

“Aren’t you?” Volux said. “While I respect the High Druid’s expertise, it seems strange for the Voice to have done this.” Haggar’s head turned to give him a long look; Keith couldn’t see her expression, but Volux shrugged at it. “There perhaps might be more at work than jealousy.”

Thace looked like he’d moved mountains to look calm. It was too tense and sharp to be real. “I believe we should defer, Druid, to the highest authority in this room.” Hyladra winced in sympathy, the sound startlingly audible in Keith’s new form. She was still so close.

“It would be the polite thing to do,” Volux said before looking away to a computer. Keith filled in the obvious blank: It would be the polite thing to do-- but not the right thing to do. “His vitals are sufficient for a Galra, High Druid.”

Haggar nodded, though she didn’t turn away from the computer. “He’ll need time to recuperate and understand his changes. However, there is an order of business to attend to before I depart. It concerns the Emperor.”

She couldn’t hide what they’d done. Keith was smart enough to know that. “You’re going to tell him what happened,” Hyladra said. She had wrapped around him again, and he felt her voice shake. “High Druid, we did this to save a comrade-- not to disobey his will.”

“You endangered the Paladin,” was the reply, “and kept the Clarion threat a secret.” Haggar lacked heat to her words, and Keith wondered at that. Was such disobedience normal, or did she understand? “Your desire to help is overshadowed by your folly. Yet only one of you carries the blame: Commander Thace.”

Thace didn’t look surprised, though he did look chagrined. “I could not abandon my kin.”

“I know,” Haggar said. “You had no choice. That is the burden of all Galra, and may that fact save you from a dark fate. But I will not lie to the Emperor.” She pulled away from the computer, her steady gaze swinging back to Keith. “But the Paladin needs time to adjust and think. Don’t you?”

A howl had buried itself in his chest. It wanted to break free. He wanted to let it go. Everyone watched him, though, and any cracks would be openings for them to pry into. Hyladra’s comforting presence pressed against his back held the howl in as his own will frayed. “It’d be nice,” he said. Would Zarkon himself show up? He forced back a cringe at the thought of Zarkon seeing him like this. It’d be a small victory for Zarkon-- another way to tie Keith to the Galra, far from Allura’s grasp.

It took more prodding for Volux and Thace to leave, and Kymin and Hyladra flat out refused to go. Haggar left them in an uncomfortable silence. “I failed you,” Kymin said. He stood at the edge of the table Keith was on. He didn’t touch Keith; his hands were balled at his sides. “I was supposed to _protect_ you.”

Hyladra said nothing, so uncharacteristic of her that he wondered if she blamed Kymin. So he spoke in her stead. “I spared her,” he said. “I made a choice, and it was the wrong one. I didn’t expect the knife in my neck. Should have, though.”

Kymin gave a sharp shake of his head. “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “It was a cowardly attack from someone you’d spared. Her body will hang until the birds pick her corpse bare.”

Keith looked Kymin in the eye. He half-expected Kymin to look away from the eeriness of his eyes, but Kymin didn’t. But then why would he think they were eerie? They were what Kymin would have seen from birth. His human eyes would have been stranger. “I trust you to deal with it,” he said instead of sharing his angst. They didn’t need to know what he thought of his new form. Even if they understood, he risked alienating them. Nobody liked having their features called freakish. “And-- thank you for helping. I’ve got a lot to think about, but at least I can think about it.”

Kymin leaned in, his fists relaxing. He brushed his cheek against Keith’s, tentative and gentle, and Keith’s nose twitched as a wave of sea salt and ash flooded it. Kymin pulled back, smiling gently with incisors peeking out from beneath his lips; Keith watched him leave, Hyladra quiet by his side.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured into his furred shoulder.

Keith ached to scratch at his skin, as though his new appearance was a costume, not reality. “This isn’t what I ever wanted.”

“I know.” She pulled away, leaving smoke behind. He breathed in the scent. Its sharpness ground against the sterile medical air. “You’re human, even if the Voice decided otherwise.” She stepped out from behind him, her kind face faintly sad. “I don’t know why She did this. I don’t know if it’s reversible, and I don’t know where this means in the long term.” Her hand touched his face. “I am here, though. I will be here for you, and I will help you figure out-- figure out how this works, and how to get back.”

He read nothing in her sunshine eyes. She carried an earnestness to her that he didn’t know if he could trust. This might have been a boon to her-- a way to keep him with her. Did he think she was that selfish, though? He ignored the guilt that rose. He was allowed to be frightened. “Thank you,” he said. Voicing his thoughts would damage the relationship beyond repair. “I’m-- I don’t think the Voice’ll change me back, but there are other things that could help, right?”

She hesitated, and he deflated. “There might be,” she allowed. “There are always new powers rising from the Empire’s borders. The Voice may understand in time, however. Her whims are many, but Her mind is sharp.”

“Would she care?” he asked-- almost croaked, his voice weighed down by misery. His palms itched. Anxiety, he wondered, or something else? “I can’t go back to the others like this.”

“Others?” she parroted. It took a moment for understanding to flash over her face. “Your fellow Paladins. Surely they can see more than the outside! You-- this is a mistake. An inadvertent cruelty from someone who means well. She wants you to see something from this, or make use of it. When you return to your allies, they will love you as I do. Because you are _Keith_. Because you are a hero among their ranks.”

She said it fiercely, with the kind of certainty that one had when they spoke of rising suns. Yet it all tasted bitter to Keith. “I hope so,” he said. None of the Paladins would look at him the same if he returned to them as a Galra. Sure, it was a mistake, a cruel prank from the Voice, but his face was the enemies’. He looked like those who’d tortured Shiro. “I should shower.”

“No showers,” she said. Keith blinked. Tears had tangled into his fur, turning the area around his eyes into gunk. “Water can make your fur rot.”

Keith stared. “But all I’ve seen are showers? Where I was attacked, and in Thace’s room! How can you guys _not_ use showers?”

“We sometimes do, like when combat happens. Blood is hard to remove without water.” She picked up something from a nearby chair. “But-- when using showers-- we need special drying equipment. Otherwise your fur will trap the water close to the skin, and mold festers.” She turned back to him, nose crinkling. “While the shower I suspect was provided to you doesn’t have the feature, Thace’s would have had a separate compartment for the volcanic ash. It may have appeared to be a tub?”

He’d seen it in her memories. He tried to think back to Thace’s bathroom, but the entire memory was a blur. “There was a tub,” he said, only relatively sure. “It-- it’s seriously used for dust baths?”

“Water is important on Gal,” she said. “It’d be a waste to use it for bathing when there’s plenty of sufficient volcanic ash about.” She reached over and stroked his cheek. “A damp wash cloth will clean the few blood stains on you. Then a bit of drying, and then you can be taught how to use the dust.”

It was like chinchillas, then. He’d seen them in pet stores before, rolling around in their dust bowls. Did the Galra use them like that? He still had the faint memory of being Hyladra as she burrowed into the dust. It hadn’t been as wild or frenzied as the chinchillas he’d seen, but it was close. He tried to imagine doing that himself, but the image was wrong. He still saw himself as Keith the Human.

The blanket’s warmth didn’t make him relax. It made him feel barer-- so much more keenly aware that he was naked beneath the sheet in a form that he didn’t recognize. Things should have been colder. The metal and the air and the loneliness were dulled. His fur hugged his body’s warmth to his skin. He wondered what shade his skin was beneath the almost-black purple.

“Can I--” He cleared his throat. It felt strange: there was something growly to his voice now, like a low purr that never went away. “...I need some time to process this.”

Hyladra blinked. “Oh!” She pulled away. “I’m sorry.” For once, she looked unsure. “I’ll go prepare your bath?” He nodded, and she stood straighter. “I-- Keith. You’re not a freak. You might not be a Galra, but this doesn’t mean… it doesn’t mean you’re wrong or a freak in your current form.”

He nodded again, and her brow furrowed as her back bent slightly under the weight of the situation. She left him there in silence. The door swished closed behind her, and it left Keith to stare down at his blanket and hands. The pads on his hands were a lighter purple-- an eggplant, he thought, instead of almost-black.

He lifted a hand and touched his hair. It was silkier than it’d been as human hair: a few strands hung in front of his eyes, and their lilac tint was sharpened by the strange green tint that everything had. What was it? Was it a different facet of materials he already knew, or was he now able to perceive the full colours of a different material? He shook his head. It frightened him to look.

His fur whispered against the metal table as he turned and hopped off the table. Claws clicked against the floor. He looked down at what had once been slim and bare. Instead, his feet were flat and wide, coated in fur and clawed. His legs were odd. They were humanoid, but bowed in places. It was more natural for him to stand with a slight crouch, as though ready to pounce.

He hesitated, at first. It wasn’t a question he wanted to think on too much. But he hadn’t felt anything _there_. Nothing swung, or at least swung enough for him to notice. Did he want to know? The answer was yes, but it came with a whole lot of ‘no’ too. He looked down, cringing.

It was fine. A bit different in shape, but present and accounted for. Maybe the world thought he’d suffered enough already. He grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around himself like a particularly fluffy toga.

He tried to focus on breathing as he stumbled along. Walking was different, in a way. The prowl required more purpose, while holding his back straight and his head high required more concentration. He focused on it instead of on the growing panic that devoured his hindbrain.

He couldn’t go back to the Paladins like this. To them, he’d be a monster who’d replaced an ally, even a friend. Shiro would look at him with sympathy-- but it’d be overshadowed by fear, and that reluctant loathing from someone who wanted to see the best in everyone but saw little redeemable in the Galra.

Keith had bonded with Galra. He’d worshipped their God-- or at the very least acknowledged it enough to gain its attention. Now, he stood alone in a medical room, a Galra drawing a bath for him as he stumbled around under some otherworldly being’s fucked up curse.

His right foot folded strangely on an uneven surface. He tripped, catching himself on a counter, and he sighed, his voice wet with tears. He hobbled to a chair and sat down. The blanket toga absorbed the cold metal backing; when he glanced behind him, its hazy green left him squinting.

The cold metal felt good against his neck when he leaned back. It also stopped the tears from pooling uncomfortably in his eyes: it slid out from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks, and then dripped on to the floor. They were warm.

He didn’t allow himself to speak. It’d end badly-- it’d open a small crack in the dam, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it before Hyladra came back. He breathed deeply, and watched through tears as hazy yellow plumed up with his steaming breath. It was heat-sensitive, then. Yellow for heat; green for cold. But there was a more pressing question: why was the room so cold?” He knew being naked didn’t help, but his breath shouldn’t have been frosting like that.

Unless. Unless the Galra were more sensitive to cold, and they’d had the room cool for a human Keith. He shivered. He couldn’t resist rubbing his hands together-- a human gesture-- and he winced at how his rough bare pads scratched at each other. Tears dropped onto them when he held his palms facing him.

Stop crying, he told himself. He didn’t have time to grieve. The Clarion were still around. The traitor still needed to be found-- and coaxed into helping Keith, as much as possible. And Pidge’s family was still offered. If he could get everything to work, he could return to being a human, stop the Clarion, find the traitor, get Pidge’s family, and escape with the captured traitor and Red Lion. These were possibilities that were in reach. He could pull it off, couldn’t he? There was too much doubt in him to say yes. Nothing had gone right on Central Command.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of fur against fur. He needed to look calm and unbothered by what was happening. Displaying weakness to Haggar had been a mistake. At least the others he had a vague sort of trust in-- a surety that they wouldn’t turn on him immediately. He stared at his palms as he thought. Faint scars marked the middle of his palms. Were they remnants from his human form, or something new? He pressed an index finger into his left palm’s centre. It was particularly fleshy and slightly tender. Was it swollen, or was that typical for the Galra?

He shook his head and tried not to flinch when his ears twitched. Everything was so much louder, so much brighter, and so much _colder_ as a Galra. When he moved, he startled himself. When he looked into the metal wall and saw his reflection, the distortion wasn’t the unsettling thing about it. He touched his nose and it was long and squat and a little too catlike for comfort. He pinched the tip to find his nostrils were like a cat’s triangular tip. His claws dug into the bare flesh as he grit his teeth.

“Keith?” Hyladra hovered at the door. “...Don’t hurt yourself.”

It wasn’t like that. His hands fell from his face. “I wasn’t,” he said. He kept his hands on his legs. The silky fur made his head feel light. “Is the bath ready?” His voice didn’t shake.

Hyladra’s dusty uniform rubbed against his fur when she hugged him. “It’s okay,” she told him firmly. He snuffled against her shoulder, though he’d blame it on the ash only. She stroked his hair. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“M’not,” he said. Hyladra huffed. “It’s just… unsettling.” He wanted to peel his skin off. Maybe underneath it would be his human form.

“I know,” she said. “I know. If I could conjure the Voice and demand it return you to a human form, I would. But all we can do is make due. Let us get you clean and then deal with what else may come.”

The ash-tub was down the hall, tucked between a lab and another medical check-up room. Its square room was taken up by the tub, a shower stall, and a looming dryer the size of Keith’s torso. Hyladra supported him as he shuffled along, passing along quick tips on how to walk better. “Swing with your hips,” she told him. “That may have made you sashay as a human, but it’ll make you faster as a Galra.”

He tried it and almost fell on top of the tub’s edge. Hyladra steadied him at the last second. A mound of dust waited in the tub, the ash dark and fine. “To the bench first,” she said. His toga barely withstood the fall, and the hobble to the bench made it loosen. When he sat, he pulled the blanket closer.

Hyladra handed him a damp yellow-misted red cloth. It was warmer here, and the cold cloth made his pads cold. He winced, the sound a faint whimper. It wasn’t an appreciated addition. Hyladra glanced at him. He focused on pretending nothing had happened. The cloth came away with dried green blood and red flecks. “Get behind your ears,” Hyladra told him.

His ears twitched wildly as he washed the crevices and dips of his ears. “Do, uh, Galra sweat? I’ve smelled a sort of musk on you guys before.”

“Do you smell one now?” Hyladra asked. Keith considered it and shook his head. He’d smelled salt, ash, and smoke. “The musk was our natural scent and the ash, as understood through your human nose. We don’t sweat as you did.” She paused. “If you won’t take offense--”

“I’m not the type,” Keith said, scrubbing at the region under his chin. It felt good.

“Your sweating was gross,” she admitted. Keith laughed, and it left her grinning. “To keep cool, we rely on our suits. Before technology, we trusted in our fur to trap cool air close to the skin. If things became truly bad and there was water, we’d bath and spend time in the sun drying.”

Keith glanced at the giant dryer. “I’m guessing rot wasn’t a big problem on Gal?”

“Not really.” Hyladra fiddled with the dryer’s settings. “Outside of the ground dwellings, there was little moisture and dark for rot to grow. It was only when we started to dwell in air conditioned buildings and fly around in space that it became a rampant problem.” She motioned for Keith to stand. “A light drying and you can visit the ash bath.”

The dryer deafened him as Hyladra raked the ash. Heat fluffed his fur and rubbed against his skin. It burned the inside of his ear slightly-- air blasted down the channel-- and his ears flattened in response. When the blast of air stopped, his fur poofed out. He frowned at the mirror and tried to pat it all down.

“The ash will help,” Hyladra said, smirking. “There are creams and dry shampoos as well.” She laughed, the action sudden and sharp. “I should take you to a spa, if you ever get near a colony.”

Keith forced his arms to unfold across his chest. “We’ll see how I do with the ash first.” He tried to imagine people touching his body and shuddered. It still didn’t feel like his own. “...Do I just roll around in it?”

“Mostly,” she said. “Burrow down into it, roll around, rub it through your hair, and take care of the pads on your feed and hands. You’ll find that the pads will sometimes become chapped if you don’t take good care of them.” She pointed at a series of military-grade push-pump jugs. “Moisturizer will help prevent Fissure Foot.”

Which sounded as pleasant as stepping on a nail. “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he said. He glanced between Hyladra and the ash. “So, uh…”

She laughed and turned away, heading for the doors. “I won’t be watching! Just try to keep the ash from your eyes. Your third eyelid should help.” She closed the door before his mind caught up enough to splutter. A third eyelid? How did he even control that?

He shook his head. Hopefully it kicked in on its own, though the thought of a third eyelid left him shuddering. It made sense that the Galra would have them-- they were desert-dwellers, after all, and cats too-- but it just emphasized how far from his human form he was. His stomach twisted. He reached out to the ash and ran a hand over it.

The ash was powdery and smooth. Yet, whatever its properties were, it left no heavy stain. He held up his hand and blew on it. The dust puffed off, though it left a strange lustre behind. When he rubbed it on his fur, it did the same. A quick shake of his body, and the powder fell away. His fur gleamed. But even better, he noticed that the dust absorbed oils from his fur-- places that looked greasy from what had happened were now pleasantly groomed. He ran his claws through tangle-prone areas: he knew them from stray cats and woolly dogs. His armpits, his legs, and the area around his ears were carefully carded. Did the Galra have special combs? He’d have to ask Hyladra.

She’d left behind a Galra uniform. He didn’t want to touch it. He’d worn it before-- when he first met Hyladra-- but he hadn’t been anything other than human. Wearing it as a human was refusing what it meant. He couldn’t be a Galra soldier as a human. Instead of dressing, he prowled the tub’s stone edge and fluffed at his fur, shedding more and more dust.

He couldn’t wear his makeshift toga out. There were no other clothes, and Hyladra likely had a reason for offering the uniform. Maybe they wanted to keep what happened a secret. Keith knew there were ways to use this to their advantage. But when he looked at the uniform, something in him cringed back.

Sendak had worn that uniform. Adran had too. The Yexin officer and Wrin and every other Galra who he hated and-- in the dark moments, in his weakest moments-- feared. But others had worn the uniform, like Hyladra and Elin. They’d been kind to him and so far from the hate and viciousness directed at him by others.

He tried to rub his eyes but remembered his claws at the last moment. “Just do it,” he muttered. “You don’t have a choice.”

He put on the uniform slowly. Every time he touched himself, his brain startled at the fur. IN the dust bath, he’d at least had the ash to cushion his hands. Now, all the changes were raw and visible. Every time an article of clothing fit perfectly, it was like another punch to the gut. This was his reality now. Panic was unnecessary and, he reminded his brain, _unappreciated_.

The stretchy material clung nicely to his new form. He bent and flexed. The material didn’t constrict or pinch, and he wondered if there were designated sizes, or if the material had advanced beyond that. A knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened the door with one hand as he unzipped a pair of boots.

Hyladra’s grim face made him pause. “The Emperor wants to speak to you,” she said. His heart sunk. “Thace looked like he came from war when he left the meeting room.”

His heart reached the ground. “Has he spoke to you yet?” She shook her head. “Then he won’t ever.”

Hyladra’s eyes widened. “Keith--”

“I won’t let him be cruel to you,” Keith said. “You did this for many reasons, but I was one of them. You’ve done so much for me. The least I can do is protect you from whatever Zarkon’s handing out.”

Hyladra lunged forward to wrap him in a hug. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I feared losing my career.” Her career was enforcing Zarkon’s will throughout the universe. Her career demanded that she kill and conspire against the Paladins. If she saw Princess Allura or Shiro, her career and duty dictated that she capture them.

For the moment, in a Galra uniform and in a Galra form, he didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that I am now officially 77 comments in the hole. Seeing as the holidays are coming up, there is no way I'm going to catch up. So I'm going to 'reset' my replies. Anything that goes on this chapter and future ones will be replied to. Just... not the other 77 comments. x_x Know that I do read them, though, and I incorporate any crit as well!
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient with me. <3 I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	21. Chapter 21

He walked through halls he could no longer describe. That single dark and cosmic colour was a ghost, fading in and out from the grey. He tried to stare at it as he walked, but it took work to walk, and he found his gaze kept falling down to his feet. Hyladra steadied him when he wobbled. Yet every time he did, he found himself growing angrier and angrier. Partly at himself-- but mostly at his situation. How was he going to fight? How was he going to defend himself? How was he even going to pretend at normalcy when he couldn’t do basic tasks?

When they arrived at the door, Hyladra pulled away. To his shame, he leaned against the wall. “We can train you again,” Hyladra said softly. “I know this is… worrying.”

“More than,” Keith said. “I’m less able than a toddler right now.” The metal was cool against his hands. “If a Clarion comes at me, I’m fucked.”

“Then you won’t be alone,” Hyladra said. It was a false promise. There was no one who could stop a bullet for him. Kymin and Hyladra couldn’t be removed from their posts without questions being raised. And assigning a permanent bodyguard would be questionable. Who could they trust, after all? Keith didn’t put it past his luck to have the bodyguard turn out to be a Clarion.

“Thank you,” Keith said despite his thoughts. Hyladra smiled at him as she opened the door. The whooshing doors ruffled his fur. He shivered at the touch, despite the cozy warmth of his armor. Inside, a terminal waited and no one else. They hobbled in; Hyladra pulled a chair up in front of the terminal, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and left him there after a few soothing promises. Things were going to be all right, she told him. It would all work out. Keith didn’t have the spite in him to disagree.

A single button on the screen blinked at him. He knew he should touch it and get the conversation over with, but the thought of what Zarkon might say left him hunched in on himself. If he hurt anyone involved in this, the blame would come back to Keith. Not from most of the others, like Volux or Hyladra or Kymin or even Thace, but from himself. He’d coaxed many of them into the plot and for what? To redeem himself to Thace? To show himself he wasn’t a monster like he felt he was? Noble goals, he thought, but pointless ones too.

It took time for him to touch the button. How much time, he couldn’t say. Things around him moved slowly: the blinking lights and the button slowly winked at him, while his hand inched closer and closer. Was it adrenaline? Or was it something in his new brain? Maybe the Galra perceived things differently. Or maybe the tightly leashed panic he’d clutched to his chest for so long was breaking free. His finger touched the air.

The screen shimmered. Beautiful lights-- some of the colour he didn’t understand-- wrapped and twisted around each other. It formed, in its mass, a picture of Zarkon’s throne room. Its image rose high, to Zarkon’s face. He looked, Keith thought, too flat to be truly calm. “Zarkon,” Keith said.

“Paladin,” Zarkon said. His voice’s usual purr was gone. “I was aware that I’d neglected you, but I never expected you to lead an inquisition on my ship in response.” His fingers moved in a rolling tap. Each click of his claws made Keith’s brain jolt.

“It was a group effort,” Keith said, as though the joke was appropriate. “But that’s not the point--”

“Isn’t it?” Zarkon’s finger stopped mid-tap. “Under the directions of an officer I thought was trustworthy, you rallied several low-ranking subordinates into a strange operation. Including, I’ll note, a Druid of some power.”

Were they low-ranking subordinates, Keith thought, or people of power? Zarkon’s description changed as he wanted it to. His ears flicked back. “They felt it would serve you best to help. When I shared the situation with them, they understood that traditional Galran values were to be appreciated and, uh... “ His brain blanked. Only when he dug his claws into his thigh did words return to him. “And uh, advocated for?”

Zarkon stared at him. “Paladin--”

“No,” Keith said firmly. “Look, Thace was kind to me. I don’t like Wrin-- I think he’s a jackass with anger issues-- but he was important to Thace. Hyladra joined because she saw the value in trapping the Clarions without alerting the rest of the station, particularly when some of them have turned out to be high-ranking officers. And Kymin didn’t know everything, just that we were luring out the Clarion.”

Zarkon leaned back. “I see.” His fingers tapped again, slow and steady. “Then it had nothing to do with their loyalty to you.” His purple eyes picked Keith apart, as though he hadn’t changed from a human. “Paladin, I’m no fool. I understand your desire to protect those precious to you, but do not lie to me. Kymin of the Yexin knew what he was doing, as did Hyladra of the Harim.”

“They’re loyal to you.” Keith sat straighter, his spine taut like a bowstring. “Hyladra would never turn on you, and Kymin lives and breathes the Galra way of life. Both do. They-- they have affection for me. But if they had to choose between me or you, their loyalty to you would be unwavering.”

“Perhaps,” Zarkon allowed. “But doing this investigation on your own has changed things-- important things.” He eyed Keith’s ears, which twitched down under his scrutiny. “As far as the Clarions are concerned, you are dead.”

Keith blinked. “But they were all killed, weren’t they? I know I wasn’t there for the last bit of the fight, but…?”

“In his panic, Kymin abandoned a dying Gevin of the Vikkari, allowing him to send one last message to his contacts. We harvested the message from his device: it was a report that the cell had been killed, but that you are deceased.”

Would the information be passed around as rumours, or simply ignored? There was an argument for either one. If it got out, it undermined Zarkon. But passing the information around was dangerous for operatives. “And what’s been their response?”

“Disturbingly, nothing. Yet, of course. I suspect they’ll move soon. In the chaos of whatever attack they make, after questions are raised of your disappearance, they’ll inform people of your demise.” Zarkon’s lips twitched. “They’ll believe that it will threaten my rule.”

Keith took in Zarkon’s statement before speaking. “We won’t be telling people what happened, then. If you’re saying there’ll be questions about what happened to me.”

“The Voice has never done anything like this before. There are stories, of course-- fairy tales of the Voice changing lovers from another species into Galra. But it has never been documented in Galra history, and let me assure you: Galra history stretches back for a _very_ long time.” Zarkon spread his hands out in a shrug. “It would be difficult to measure the response if your transformation escaped into gossip. Some would believe that it is the fate of the Paladins to become Galra, and that we should not fight them. Others might declare you as a religious figure. A few would question the Voice. All of these are unacceptable.”

Keith suppressed a shudder. It repulsed him to think of the idea of Galra attempting to capture the other Paladins to make them into Galra. It was bad enough that he had been changed. That some people might make him a religious figure-- something to be venerated for the unnatural thing that’d happened to him-- was worse. He didn’t want to be anything for the Galra. He struggled enough to be _Keith_ right now. “So we keep what happened hidden. Maybe I’m back in solitary since there was a threat from the Paladins. What do we do about me in truth? And the Clarion?”

“What do you think you can do?” Zarkon said. It wasn’t a challenge. It was, if Keith was reading it right, a genuine open question.

Keith tried to absorb that. He’d somehow moved from prisoner to tool to… what? A partner? He felt his ears perk up and he wanted to curse them. They telegraphed every emotion he felt. He’d been a Galra for ten minutes, though. Control would come. It had to.

“I can’t blend in right now,” Keith said. “I can barely walk.” And sometimes he couldn’t even do that. “But I can-- I can if you train me.” Not ‘you’, he thought. “I mean, Hyladra and Kymin and others. We got information on how the Clarion find each other.” What was he thinking? He was offering to infiltrate a terrorist organization comprised of a race he didn’t understand and couldn’t mime. The training he’d need would be huge. The risk he’d be taking on even more so. Would he even be ready before the Clarion acted?

“Pretending to be a true-blooded Galra would be difficult.” Zarkon looked intrigued, though. “But it would not be impossible. Customs are different across Gal-- even more so in the colonies. You could argue away irregularities in your behaviour with that fact. With proper training and a mentor, you could be taught the ways of a rank and of our people. It is a matter, however, of finding someone willing to share their family secrets with you. I am reluctant to order someone to do so.”

Hyladra would be expected to grieve by the Clarion. He’d have her for a time. Kymin’s connection to him was less public-- but he didn’t doubt that Kymin would be willing to help. Wrin would have been labelled a traitor, and he’d need to be hidden away from the Clarion until it was time to strike. And what of Thace? It depended on what Zarkon had done to him.

“Hyladra will help.” She always did. “Kymin will too. I’m… not sure what’s happening to Wrin. Or Thace.” He eyed Zarkon. “Care to share?”

Zarkon laughed, as though what he’d said wasn’t brazen and mostly stupid to say. “Thace will be removed from his position. Wrin will be discharged. Both will return to Gal in disgrace, but at least they will have each other.”

Which was unacceptable in Keith’s view. Thace didn’t deserve to lose his position. Maybe, he thought, in a pure utilitarian view-- the practical view-- he did. But when morality crept into the situation, Keith found himself firmly on Thace’s side. “How long has Thace served?”

Zarkon’s eyes narrowed. “Paladin--”

“If he’d abandoned Wrin, what would that have said about him? That he was disloyal and cared little for Galran values.” Keith felt his ears flick back again. _Why_. “He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Wrin fucked up and deserves to be discharged. But Thace never turned his back on you: he worked to save Wrin, yes, but he gathered information to give to you.”

“His folly got you killed.” And changed, but that went unsaid.

“What got me killed was my own mistake.” Zarkon tilted his head to the side, as though he didn’t know the details. “I spared a Clarion when I shouldn’t have. It got me stabbed in the neck. Thace didn’t cause that.”

“So protective,” Zarkon murmured. “What has he done to inspire such loyalty?” He paused. “Perhaps the party?”

Thace had sung for him at the party. He’d led Keith to Hyladra. He’d displayed some caring for Keith. What was it, though? What made him so defensive of Thace? The answer didn’t surprise him. For all of Keith’s dislike of Wrin, he wouldn’t have abandoned family either. Not having any himself had made him defensive of those relationships.

When Pidge had tried to leave the Paladins to find her family, Keith had argued with her. But it came from a sense of the same utilitarianism that Zarkon used. There were more families than hers at risk. Looking back, he’d been unsympathetic, arguably cruel. But he understood now. He understood her need to find her family. If someone had taken Hyladra from him, he’d have behaved just as desperately. For Thace, his desperation had led him to going behind Zarkon’s back.

So what would he tell Zarkon? “I can see his loyalty to you,” Keith said. “He was afraid of what could happen to Wrin. So he was forced to serve you in a distasteful way, but he still served you.” Keith jutted his jaw out, aware that his expression turned mulish. “Would you have done differently in his situation?”

Zarkon leaned his head against his right hand. “Perhaps,” he said. Keith frowned at him, and he felt Zarkon eyeing his frown. “I would say that I do not associate with traitors, but that would anger you, wouldn’t it?” Keith didn’t reply, though he scowled at Zarkon. “There must be some punishment. I cannot allow the impression that I am _lax_ to fester.”

“Make it temporary,” Keith said. “Just-- maybe remove him from his position for the interim. Until things with Wrin and the Clarion clear up.”

“Make him prove himself,” Zarkon concluded. “And you believe he’s earned the chance. But what of Wrin of the Naami? Should I bless him with saving grace?”

Keith hesitated. It felt like a trap. Wrin hadn’t earned it. Not really. Arguing that he did might weaken Keith’s argument for Thace. “Wrin fucked up. I think-- I _know_ it was out of anger and grief. You could kill him, sure. But what would that accomplish? You’d send a message that any error is unforgivable.”

“I’m not a forgiving man, Keith.” Zarkon didn’t look angry, though. “I have discipline and loyalty to enforce.”

“And creating that doesn’t mean hurting Wrin.” Zarkon had said he’d discharged Wrin in disgrace. But-- “You want to get rid of him. Let him resign quietly. He loses his career and the privileges of being a soldier, but this embarrassment is put to rest without a fuss. Do you want people to know what Wrin and Thace did?”

Zarkon laughed. “You speak my own thoughts,” he said. Keith blinked. “You argue for them so passionately! I confess that I baited you with Wrin, Paladin, to hear your own thoughts. I am disgusted by Wrin, but he will be quietly removed and disposed of if he ever strays again. Thace’s clemency is due to you, Keith.”

Keith slumped in relief. Did he thank Zarkon for listening, or curse him for putting Keith through it in the first place? “Well, at least I did something.” He scratched at his cheek absently. When his fingers touched fur, he shuddered. “But that’s not everything. I want to be changed back.”

Zarkon didn’t shrug or frown or even look at him with pity. “I cannot command the Voice to do that.” His voice softened. “I will ask that Haggar petition the Voice for relief. No promises can be made, as Her whims are frequently beyond most understanding.”

He wanted to lay down and just absorb what had happened for the next few hours. His brain was sharp from panic, too wired for true rest or even complex thought. He’d darted between Zarkon’s traps like a wild animal between a gun’s aim. “Yeah,” he said, the sound coming out as a gusty sigh. “...I feel like a freak.” He shouldn’t have said that.

But Zarkon didn’t look upset. “Nobody would enjoy their body being torn apart and reformed to something strange and alien. While this form will come with blessings-- you are stronger, faster, with better senses-- it is not your own.”

“It never will be,” Keith said. Zarkon bowed his head in a long nod. “I don’t know what to do with this body.”

“Learn how to use it.” Keith blinked at Zarkon’s certainty. “Paladin. This is a curse and a blessing.”

“How?” Keith said. “If I never change back, I can never rejoin the Paladins or my own species.”

Zarkon contemplated him for a moment. “Would you care for a tale?”

“Not really,” Keith said, “but if you think it’ll help, I’d love to hear it.” It’d be hard to make things worse, he mused.

“Ties are not so easily broken by appearances.” Zarkon’s head lifted from the smug, relaxed aura he cloaked himself in. “When I returned, after losing the Black Lion… Stories waited for me. Stories about how I’d worked with the enemy. I was a monster and threat to the Alteans and the Galra. Yet I became Emperor, Keith, because the ties that bind us together are made of steel. You were born human, so you will die human-- even if you never look as you once did.”

“You had allies and friends in the Galra. Family.” The words were fire in his mouth, scorching and savage. “Some of the Paladins can barely tolerate me.”

“Yet they know you better than they do any Galra.” Zarkon didn’t seem ruffled by the fact he was comforting an enemy. “For you are human by blood. So long as that fact remains, you can never truly be apart from your people. They may argue against you; they espouse hate, as some Galra did when I returned. But when the Alteans demanded that I be handed over and executed, they received nothing but anger.”

“And from that, you became Emperor.”

Zarkon shook his head. “From that, I spoke to the Galra as their champion. I told them what I knew. When alliances shifted, I led the changes. We embraced the Voice for what She truly was. She joined Gal, and She blessed every Galra with Her touch.” He reached up and tapped an eye-- what would be Keith’s glowing left eye. “Quintessence is Her gift. For now, you are awash in it. But when its fire dims, the connection to the Red Lion will assert itself fully.”

He was still a Paladin. So long as his eyes were purple, the Red Lion’s presence remained. It was the only comforting thing he’d learned today. “The Voice was the enemy you were fighting? When the Alteans…” ‘Turned on you’ was taking sides, but he needed Zarkon’s continued conversation. “When they turned on you.”

“It was. When things drifted into our galaxy, we had always fought them. The Voice was no different.” Zarkon shook his head. “It was foolish. The Voice meant no harm to us. She has been with us for millennia now, and has only brought with Her blessings.”

Keith was a little less warm to the Voice. It’d done enough damage to him that he doubted he’d ever be able to fully trust it, even if it treated the Galra well. Though who knew how well _that_ was. Keith didn’t know enough about it to judge. Had the Alteans known more? He wished Allura was around to ask. She would know. This history wasn’t like the the founding of the Lions; it wasn’t from history so far back that it turned to whispered rumours.

“I see,” was the most neutral thing he could muster. Memories surged. Kymin’s eyes had turned purple when he drank that alcohol. Zarkon had been able to control the Black Lion-- removing it from Shiro’s control. Both thoughts made him uneasy. What did alcohol do to the Galra, and how much of a connection did Shiro have with the Black Lion compared to Zarkon?

“You’re doubtful,” Zarkon said, “but you’ll learn.”

He was more concerned on whether Shiro would once again lose control of the Lion. Did the Black Lion have two paladins? Or was Shiro more connected while Zarkon manipulated what remained? But if the connection was small, would he still have purple eyes?

“So for now…” Keith shifted, uneasy. “I’m trained to blend in. Then I infiltrate the Clarion cells.”

“The plan intrigues me, but it will be complicated.” Zarkon steepled his hands, a thoughtful look on his face. “Thace told me of the information you gathered. Useful, but dangerous. It will get you in, Keith, but it will not get you out. If something goes wrong in this operation, there will be little I can do to save you.”

That felt more par for the course than anything else, but then he hadn’t been giving Zarkon many opportunities to see him in danger in the first place. “I understand.” Did he really know what he was getting into? Probably not. “Is there anyone who can teach me more about the Clarion cause? Because if I’m infiltrating, I’m going to need to know.“

Zarkon looked pensive. “You must understand that most information is… suppressed. For the greater good. Few know all the details and fewer are able to teach it to others. I would allow Druid Volux to do it, but their complex loyalties leave me reluctant to grant them the permission.”

“Who else can do it, though? Do the other Druids have the time and knowledge?” He wished he knew more Druids. As strange as they were as a whole, Volux couldn’t be the only tolerable one. Zarkon was thinking, and Keith feared what name he’d come to. Not Haggar, he thought. Haggar was strange and ominous. As friendly as her smiles promised she was, there was something unsettling about her. She knew things she wasn’t sharing. He didn’t need more to of that.

“Haggar is busy enough already.” Zarkon flexed his fingers in the steepling. “Yet I cannot trust Volux.” He sighed. “The cells have made this damnably difficult. I’m unsure of who to trust. Tell me, Keith, what do you think of Volux?”

“I think they’re clever,” Keith said, guarded. “Little smug, bit of a brat, but if I had to choose a Druid to have my back in something, I could do worse than Volux.”

“And how do you think they feel about me?”

He didn’t want to deal with this question. He forced himself not to shift or avert his eyes. “I think Volux is loyal. They weren’t happy with what we were doing, but they were willing to help in your name.” His back muscles twinged at how stiff he was. “Have you spoken to Volux?”

“Not yet,” Zarkon said. “I am allowing them to marshal their reasons and explanations. Haggar is protective of them: I hardly wish to punish them, but you understand my concerns, don’t you?”

“Of course.” It hurt that he actually did. He was sympathizing with Zarkon, and he felt like cutting off his tongue. “You don’t want someone you can’t trust teaching an ally of convenience about your empire’s weaknesses. But you’ve caught me, haven’t you? The Clarion want me dead. Whoever the traitor is who lowered the shields, they haven’t appeared to rescue me. And now, I’m dead. Who’s going to help me escape?”

“Are you saying your friends care so little about you?”

The words stung like nettles. “They care,” Keith said. “But they don’t see a problem with you or the empire. I don’t think they understand why I’d want to leave-- even if they know that I’m not a Galra and that I’m a Paladin.”

“Perhaps,” Zarkon said, “you should consider that viewpoint more.” Keith shook his head without thinking, and Zarkon laughed, soft and low. “Have you met any rebelling Galra that have complaints you agree with?”

He hadn’t. But then he’d only met the Clarion: rank supremacists, xenophobic even for the Galra, and vicious. There had to be other Galra out there that disagreed with Zarkon-- that wanted to fight for liberation. He’d been given a list of possible traitorous factions what felt like an eternity ago. Where were they? Were they festering like the Clarion were?

“I’ve met so few Galra.” Keith’s rough tongue brushed against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed. “There are billions, aren’t there? And I’ve met only the most loyal.”

“True,” Zarkon said. “Perhaps you should be grateful for that. Civilians are harder to control.”

Keith doubted that. Central Command had too many Clarions, mysterious traitors, and too-friendly soldiers for them to be easy to control. “We’re getting off topic. Who’s going to train me to be a Clarion?”

Zarkon shook his head. “Volux, if that’s what pleases you. They know some of the Clarion doctrine. Enough for you to pretend, at least. I warn you, Keith, that you bring scrutiny to them. If they are not loyal, I will find out.”

It didn’t matter. Volux was loyal, or at least smart enough to pretend well enough. “You won’t find anything,” Keith promised, “because there’s nothing there.”

“I hope you’re right.” The screen clicked off. All that was left on the glass screen was a sunshine yellow.

He slumped in his chair. He felt gutted. There was too much to take in. Had he made the right choice to help? Or was he handing Zarkon the rope to hang him with? Embedding himself into the Galra was helping isolate him from the Paladins and his humanity. It was bad enough that his form had been changed. Embracing it would make it worse.

He stayed in his chair, too nervous about his legs to move. He lifted one to his lap. Tracing the bone with a finger, he tried to imagine the creatures that had been the Galra forebears. Some would have been four-legged, just like humanity’s ancestors, but for some reason, the Galra hadn’t shed the strange animalistic curve to their legs. Maybe the curve allowed quicker mobility or a stronger jump. The tendons flexed beneath his touch. He cringed away from them and let his leg thump to the ground.

A quick knock at the door roused him. “Come in,” he called back. The doors opened to reveal Hyladra, her face tense and nervous. She entered but kept a distance from him. He wanted to ask why, but maybe he didn’t want to know. She opened her mouth to speak, yet stopped, shook her head, and clicked her mouth closed. Keith mirrored her hesitation. “Hyladra?”

She shifted from foot to foot, her arms crossed over her chest. “I-- I felt you.”

Keith forced himself not to stare or squint at her. “What do you mean?”

“The bond,” she said. “I felt how you felt.”

Keith froze. “How in depth?”

“I felt your worry, your nervousness, the spikes of anger and frustration.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize it would be so… so _real_.” His heart sunk, and she jerked toward him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Don’t feel bad,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I’m not angry. Just shocked. Stories about bonds are less accurate than I thought.”

He stroked her hair, and when she pulled back, she looked less stressed. “I’m guessing they romanticize it?”

She laughed. “It is the greatest thing between lovers and warriors. To have a bond is to have the sun in your chest, for you are blessed. They don’t mention feeling like-- feeling like something foreign is in you.” She pulled away, straightening her uniform. “I will adjust,” she declared. “It was simply startling. I felt I should warn you for when my own feelings travel across the bond.”

He wondered if that’s why he’d felt so tense in the conversation with Zarkon. He already felt bad, but Hyladra would have mirrored his unease, sending it back and amplifying it. There’d been no feeling of foreignness, but maybe he hadn’t noticed it. He tried to find her unease in him. Something wormed in his brain, slightly foreign; whether it was Hyladra or not, he couldn’t tell. “Thank you,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, right?”

Hyladra blinked. “Is that a saying among humans?” A surge of warmth enveloped him at that. He was still raised human. He had that, and he always would. Hyladra was smiling at him, already feeling his emotions. “Perhaps I can offer the Galran equivalent, Keith. A vulture’s cry is a warrior’s guide.”

Somehow-- though not surprisingly-- the Galra version was much more _ominous_.


	22. Chapter 22

His name was Keirin. “Firyv is pretty,” Hyladra told Kymin, “but I think he’d find it harder to respond to.” Kymin hummed as he poured over the documents. Thace waited by the conference room door, his arms crossed as he leaned against metal. “Keith, be careful of the cactus.”

Keith eyed the yellow plant as he crept past. His steps were slow: he lifted his foot carefully and placed it gingerly down on the ground, distrustful of it holding his full weight. “Keeping an eye out. Warning that I can barely pronounce Firyv anyway.”

“It sounds fine,” Kymin said from his tablet and papers.

“That’s because of my bond with Hyladra,” he said. “When I hear myself say it, I’m gargling on that rolling ‘r’.”

Hyladra blinked. “R?”

“English letter,” Keith said. “So disregard. Just know that I’d rather be Keirin.” His right tendons quivered strangely as he walked, as though tense and ready to spring away from danger. It wasn’t as difficult to walk as he’d feared, but it was less easy than he’d hoped. Practice would fix his problem. Hopefully muscle memory would fix the rest.

“He needs a rank, then,” Thace said from his post. Kymin and Hyladra shared-- what seemed to Keith-- an unreadable look. “It will have to be from someone in this room.”

“Yexin wouldn’t fit him,” Kymin decided.

Keith snorted. “That an insult?”

“It’s a fact,” Kymin fired back. “Hyladra’s language is far from what a Yexin would use now that you’re bonded to someone who isn’t the Red Lion. You speak like--”

“Like what?” Hyladra was smiling, but fangs were visible. “Keep going, Yexin.”

“Your accent is beautiful,” Kymin demured.

Hyladra’s smile widened, turning toothier. “Good. But Kymin, for all his boorishness, has a point. You don’t speak like a Yexin-- you speak like a worker-ranked Galra. Which leaves myself and Thace.”

“Not you,” Thace said. Hyladra jerked her head up to look at him, her expression mulish and ready for a fight. “I know you’re far from a traditional Harim, but sharing your rank’s divining secrets would be… inappropriate. I imagine it is already taxing to share your mind with the Paladin.”

“I know little and less about divining.” Hyladra lazed in her chair, as though she wasn’t deliberating on espionage. “And Keith is a welcome presence. Even if I must feel his anxiety every time he nears a cactus.”

“As far as I’m aware,” Keith said, “you guys are just as vulnerable to cacti as we humans.” He shot his furry hand a dubious look. “Unless the fur helps?”

“Not as much as you might hope,” Hyladra said. She looked back to Thace. “Then he’ll be a Tuvani-- a temple-tender, as you might remember, Keith. You’re willing to share even your family song?”

“I doubt he’s cruel enough to share it,” Thace replied. “And the tasks of the Tuvani are simple.”

“It includes dancing,” Kymin interjected. “It might be difficult for him to do in his new state.” He eyed Keith’s wobbling gait.

“I can learn.” Keith refused to sit or lay down. He kept circling the room, his jaw set. He felt like an inept predator with the stalking motion his hocked legs forced him into. “I saw you guys dancing. I can do that.”

“Do you know human dances?” Hyladra asked idly. She examined his motions with a keen eye. “I never saw you dance.”

“I don’t tend to make a scene about it.” He knew a bit of dancing. He’d gone to clubs a few times, mostly out of boredom and a desire to understand the attraction to them. They’d been boring-- people were handsy, the drinks were expensive, and he couldn’t hear any conversation over the thumping music. He’d tried dancing but people touched him and everyone was too close. “I can do some hip hop and rave stuff.”

“Hip hop?” Hyladra echoed.

“Rave?” Kymin added. “What styles are those?”

“I--” What were they? “They’re common dance styles. Something you’re a lot more likely to see outside of fancy parties.” He contemplated a silken tapestry that mirrored the vision of Gal he’d seen before. Yet its colours were different when he looked at them through Galra eyes. They were dynamic and wild, shifting like flame in the wind. A purple sky overlooked orange sands. Yellow cacti, red birds, and a golden sun seemed to move as mirages. Keith wanted to touch the Galra silk, but he didn’t trust his claws.

“That won’t do,” Hyladra muttered.

Thace shook his head. “Temple dances are slow and considered affairs. It is about shapes and form-- with slow, fluid motion and pauses. The dancing you saw at your party was far from what you’d be doing at a temple.”

So it was old school Vogue to slow music. “I can do that.” He paused. “When I know how to walk.”

Hyladra laughed. “You’re very confident,” she said. “But you hold many secrets, don’t you?” There was something to her expression that left Keith uneasy. There was no anger to her voice, though, so Keith shrugged and smiled. His canines were visible.

“So Thace will teach him the ways of the Tuvani. What of the pair of us, Hyladra?” Kymin reached over to Keith and lightly touched his back. Keith tried not to wince at the touch. “Less of a curve, darling. I know you feel uneven right now-- your centre of gravity was in your chest, wasn’t it?-- but it’s now lower, around your hips. If you hold yourself straight, you’ll still be able to move.”

He tried it and wobbled some more. But Kymin nodded approvingly, so he set off once again in his laps. The next few days would be full of that-- of people touching him, adjusting his stances, and then telling him to keep trying, keep going, that there was an end to this and that they’d be there at the end.

Hyladra put him through his paces in combat. She was quick and vicious, and he always walked away with bruises he couldn’t see. He was faster as a Galra-- stronger too. “We have higher muscle density,” he was told, “and our endurance is higher. Before we were Galra, we were desert predators-- the apex predators.”

“Did you run down prey?” he asked.

Hyladra grinned. “Always,” she purred. “Then we’d disable it with claws and teeth.” She bounced lightly on her feet. There was a spring to her step that was mesmerizing. “Acrobatics of the type you showed as a human are… uncommon.” She pointed down to her hocks. “A bad landing will easily break your leg, and it will take you out for months.”

Galra were delicate but vicious predators, then. Keith was wary of that. His fighting style demanded more than speed: it demand agility. Jumps and flips kept him, as a human, competitive with the Galra. Without it, he’d need to change completely.

So when with Hyladra, he smiled, nodded, and followed her lead. He was going to learn a new style for his new form, she told him. It would be just as effective and just as dangerous to his opponent while it kept him in one piece. “Awesome,” he told her. When she left, he stumbled his way through his forms and slowly practiced acrobatics. He didn’t throw himself into flips and jumps, but started as he would a child. Simple exercises-- hops, stretches, and body awareness. It took several days of hopping before his muscle memory adjusted. He did his first cartwheel during lunch. Hyladra had gone to another room to hunt down food. He’d stayed, and as he ducked and dodged imaginary punches, he couldn’t resist.

He’d pulled something, but he’d landed almost perfectly. He could do this. Hyladra could call it dangerous, but he lived for that. What was he without his agility anyway? It was who he was. A traitorous voice whispered that the others would never recognize him as Keith without it.

As Hyladra led him through exercise after exercise, Kymin and Thace teamed up to teach him the basics of Galran society. “He won’t need the details,” Kymin declared in their first session. “Just enough to fake it. We have a week to give him that.”

“There’ll be few, if any, Tuvani among them.” Thace eyed Keith critically. “While he’ll need to know quite a bit, he won’t find himself on the spot with that either. Keith-- Keirin, I’ll give you a recording of my family song. Memorize it before bed, and tomorrow we can sing it together. Few understand the words in their family songs besides, so I believe we can get away with this.”

Kymin was nodding. “It took a special tutor to teach me the Yexin song’s meaning. Nobody will ask for details. It’s rude besides. What parts shall we teach of history?”

“Recent history,” Thace decided, “and perhaps a bit of the theological history of Gal. Enough for Keirin to hold forth in a religious discussion and any strategy.” He gave Keith a sharp look. “You will give no genuine advice, understood?”

“I’m not going to arm the enemy,” Keith said. Not while his friends were in danger and he was a Galra. Things weren’t finished here. “Anyway. How long have the Clarion been around?” Kymin shared one last look with Thace before the lesson began. It wasn’t a promising one, in Keith’s opinion, but then there was very little promising about his situation, despite his bravado.

He got what amounted to a Sparknotes version of Galra history. Before Zarkon, everything had been dark, dismal, and deadly. Outposts warred with each other. Various nations lived and died in months. The coastal kingdoms dined on plentiful fish while the interior starved. When the interior developed sophisticated irrigation, they remembered the coastal kingdoms’ cruelties. The coastal kingdoms starved as their fish were disdained in favour of hunted feral gheron, gardens bigger than some cities, and the sweet smugness of overcoming the enemy. The coastal kingdoms remembered that when interior kings came to conquer their lands.

Galran history was a history of bitterness and remembered slights. While Keith didn’t say it, Wrin’s anger and viciousness seemed keenly characteristic of his species-- at least pre-Zarkon. Keith wondered at the offense the thought would cause as he listened to the stories of wastelands surrounding volcanos taller than skyscrapers and the unfortunates who congregated around them, for lack of any city to live near that would turn a blind eye to black market dealings.

“Does it still happen?” Keith asked as Kymin finished his speech on slavery. The Galran verdict on it was less comforting than humanity’s: slavery was just if entered into willingly, though it meant disgrace for the slave’s friends and family. If someone entered slavery, it was because their allies had betrayed them.

Kymin seemed to sense his unease. “Rarely,” he said. “Mostly when someone is discovered doing something disgraceful-- like consorting with ash-dwellers or stealing money from the Empire.” Kymin straightened as Keith eyed him. “Among most, it’s considered a coward’s way out. It has got us useful workers and intelligence before, though.”

Horrific. Unpleasant. Distasteful. All were words he could use to describe it. Instead, he nodded, as though the information was pedestrian. Of course the Galra had slaves. Of course their history was long and bloody. Of course they had an entire rank devoted to those who’d made black market deals. Ash-dwellers were, officially, the target of no discrimination. “It’s more of a distaste for their forebears,” Kymin had said.

It’d been too coy for Keith’s tastes. “So it’s all long looks, being pointed at, and having everyone suddenly interested in what you’re doing.” Keith knew that feeling keenly.

Kymin shifted, embarrassed. “Nothing quite so obvious--”

“Then it’s housing,” Keith said. “Or in the justice system. Maybe it’s even in pay scales. I know how this works, Kymin.” He hadn’t been born yesterday-- and he hadn’t been born white.

“...Anyway,” Kymin said. He looked embarrassed and maybe, Keith hoped, a bit ashamed. Keith doubted the Galra were criticized often if ever to their faces. “When the Emperor came, chased by the Alteans, he rallied every remaining nation on Gal. A half dozen total, all on the brink of war, and he mustered their forces to fight the Alteans and escort the Voice to Gal.”

Keith wondered if it’d managed to destroy anything important on the way there. It didn’t seem a considerate extraterrestrial being. He waited for the Voice to appear, for it to scold him or hurt him, but it never came. Whatever it’d done to change him, it didn’t seem interested in following up on it. “And then you guys razed Altea to the ground.”

“A crude way of putting it,” Thace murmured.

Kymin looked less sanguine. “That’s quite enough, Keith.” The sharpness in Kymin’s voice left Keith grimacing. “I understand that-- that things are different where you come from. But this is Galra history. We didn’t have a choice: if we didn’t fight, the Alteans would have attacked us for embracing the Voice, and they would have taken the Emperor.”

The Alteans had had all the Lions too. Yet Alfor had feared the sway Zarkon still had on the Black Lion, and so the Lions had gathered dust. “Your forebears destroyed an entire civilization.” Keith eyed the tablets and maps in front of him. “For marking out the ash-dwellers as the Galra do, you’re eager to forget your own sins.”

Did that sound like him? It didn’t, he thought. It sounded like a Galra speaking, with the arch tone and obnoxious language. He sounded like he’d been born with a silver spoon. He shook his head, trying to loosen the thoughts from his brain. “I shouldn’t throw stones. I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t. Not really. It bothered him.

Kymin looked slightly mollified. Thace didn’t seem to care either way. When the history lesson ended, Kymin filed out. Thace locked the door behind him. Minutes passed in silence, which left Keith to fidget with his tablet and wonder what Thace was thinking.

“I’m far from a position to give advice.” Thace sat hunched across from him, his usual proud demeanour withered by the pounding heat of stress and disgrace. “I have made many mistakes-- mistakes for you to clean up and save me from. I will remember what you’ve done for a long while, Paladin. But if I were to give advice-- Voice preserve those who would receive it from a man as flawed as myself-- I would say that strangers shouldn’t spread spite to allies trying to help. It is, at best, a way to earn ire. At worst, it will get you killed.”

Keith knew he should be grateful. While he was doing those around him a kindness by infiltrating the Clarion cells, he was also dependent on their whims. If Thace decided to walk away, into disgrace, there was nothing Keith could do. If he offended Kymin too much, Kymin would walk away angry and bitter.

And yet, and yet, and yet. The Galra had committed atrocity after atrocity. He loved Hyladra. He cared about Kymin’s fate. He’d argued for Thace’s salvation in front of Zarkon himself. And Volux would always be the strange ally who never wavered yet carried their own agenda. But he’d seen Allura’s grief. He’d seen the Balmerans. When he’d been human-- in his human form-- he’d had distance from it. None of that history was his fault, so it was not his problem.

Now, in his new form, he was joining that history. Didn’t he have a responsibility to challenge it? To prod the oblivious or brainwashed into a realization that there was something wrong with the Empire? He believed he did, though he suspected he lacked the diplomacy to do it. In his position, he needed to juggle both the vanities of the Galra and the moral obligation to question what they were doing. But he hadn’t been good at as a human either: he’d gathered enemies like wasps to sweetness. He’d had his admirers, to be certain, but they’d been distant, removed from his abrasiveness.

He choked down the self-loathing. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he told Thace. “How much about the Tuvani am I going to learn?”

“Enough for you to pass to outsiders,” Thace said. “A Tuvani might be able to pick you out from deeper interaction, but the hope is that a surface look will reveal nothing. Thusly, you’ll learn manners, history, the family song, and one or two secrets about the rank. As well as temple duties, but those are simple things-- cleaning, a prayer or two, and how to be respectful of the temple and its inhabitants.”

“And the dances?”

Thace laughed, quiet and painfully restrained. “I am no expert at those. I can teach you a few of the basic motions, but Volux will have to train you. They will know them better than I.”

What ensued was a dizzying amount of information. Galra manners were what could be described as predatory. They were the manners of sharks and lions: looking someone directly in the eyes with a level head was a way to challenge them. Quick movements were threatening. If a Galra wished to end an argument, looking to the ground was the best way. “Baring your teeth,” Thace said, “is unacceptable among superiors.”

Keith thought back to all the toothy grins he’d seen. He suspected Thace’s manners lesson was less common among younger Galra, which made sense when he compared it to humans. The cadets he’d been with in the Garrison had always saluted and used sir as necessary, but he remembered grumbling from the old guard about how brazen the cadets had been. Why would the Galra be any more impervious to generational change?

Eating was slightly different. “Loud noises are fine,” Thace said. “It’s taken as appreciation.” It explained the sometimes messy noises he’d heard from other Galra as they slurped down their soups or crunched away at hard-crusted bread. “Take care, however, to always offer the first serving to older or more senior-ranked Galra.”

The following days would cover the other items. The Tuvani had always tended Galran temples, even before the Voice. The Galra had followed nature deities. Their gods had been those of water, the desert, and the volcanos. High above these deities were the moons and sun who lived in the sky. “Science pulled many Galra away from their worship,” Thace said. “Yet we survived. Traditions kept the government funding the temples, and the Tuvani were the guardians of those traditions.”

The temples couldn’t function without them. The Tuvani cared for the daily tasks of the temples, whether it was cleaning, mending, or tending to the priests and priestesses. When the Voice had come to Gal, the temples had been repurposed. “Her great powers were undeniable-- unlike those of our old gods, their powers explained away through numbers and diagrams.”

Zarkon’s changes to the rigid rank lines had allowed the Tuvani to take in those of other ranks and teach them the ways of temple-tending. Meanwhile, other Tuvani abandoned their rank’s duties in favour of becoming doctors, fishers, and even soldiers. When Thace had joined the military, his family had been proud. “I believe we can say the same for your fictional family,” Thace said. “It will explain any large gaps in your knowledge.”

Keith nodded. “Zarkon mentioned there being other colonies with different customs too.”

“You’re going to have to stop calling him that,” Thace said with a sigh. “No Galra refers to the Emperor like that, and if you don’t get in the habit now, you’re going to slip.”

Thace was right. He’d need to start addressing Zarkon as ‘Emperor’. How deep would that need to go, though? If he was thinking Zarkon in his mind and trying to say Emperor, there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d end up fucking it up. But calling Zarkon the Emperor in his mind would be getting deep-- to a level that was uncomfortable. Calling Zarkon by his name asserted some control over the situation, even if it was flimsy. It was a statement of who he was: a human and a Paladin.

Going undercover meant surrendering that. He’d volunteered for this. He could go back to Zarkon eventually. If he did this right, it’d be over quick. “The Emperor, then.” The word tasted like ash.

Thace nodded slowly. “Better.” He tapped a tablet. “The song is uploaded on here. Simply request the Tuvani song, and it will play.”

Keith pulled the tablet toward him. It was smaller than the others he’d seen-- small enough to fit in his palm. “And the secrets?”

Thace looked thoughtful. “You understand that you can’t share this with anyone. Not even Hyladra, or your fellow Paladins, if you ever get the chance to.”

“Unless it’s the secret to destroying the Empire,” Keith said, “I won’t say a word of it to anyone else.”

“We Tuvani hardly hold such valuable secrets.” Thace took a moment to eye Keith. “Among the Tuvani, it is said that we are descended from the moon and sun more directly than from the other Galra. That when the moon wept for her fate, her tears became the Tuvani. This is not discussed among outsiders.”

It was fanciful, poetic, and useless. The best kind of secret. “And the other?”

Thace laughed. “No comment on that secret? Very well, then. Perhaps you’ll enjoy the second. Before our conflict with the Alteans, a Tuvani learned from them how to transform. This knowledge, the story goes, was forgotten when the student was killed by their mentor in the conflict, and so our knowledge was lost.”

Keith mulled the story over. “Do you think that one’s true?”

“No,” Thace said. “Galra biology does not allow for such transformation naturally. Perhaps a Druid could do it, but I do not know what that would do the subject or the Druid. Perhaps Volux does. For the Tuvani, it is merely another quiet assertion of our superiority over the higher ranks that results in nothing.”

“Wow, uh.” Keith rested his cheek on his hand. His elbow dug into the chair’s arm. “You’re pretty savage about Tuvani legends. And the Tuvani in general. There a reason for that?”

“I have little patience for superstition or vain tales meant to soothe hurt pride.” Thace’s stony expression displayed none of his distaste: only a cool stoicism. “I would not mention my criticism to other Tuvani, if you encounter them. Simply smile, nod, and agree with their prideful blather. It will ingratiate you to them easily.”

Keith nodded slowly. “I see,” he said, the most neutral thing he could come up with. Whatever issues Thace had with his rank, Keith didn’t know their origin and he suspected he didn’t want to know. So he took the advice given, boiled out the bitterness, and kept the resulting nuggets of wisdom. The Tuvani liked themselves a lot, therefore challenging them in any way would harm his position. Also, they were fanciful dreamers who worked in a religious role that-- it looked like-- kept the clergy functioning. Keith could appreciate that, even if he didn’t like the Voice.

Volux appeared in his lessons only sometimes, and always without warning. Keith would be sparring with Hyladra, attempting to mimic her uniform style, and then someone would clear their throat from the door. “We need a schedule,” Hyladra would say every time. Volux would agree, then spirit Keith away.

It never started with the lessons. It started with an infusion of quintessence. “Don’t I already get that from Hyladra?” Keith asked the first time.

“Not enough,” Volux said, “to make up for the trauma you went through. The more quintessence you have, the quicker you’ll return to fighting form.” They flicked the cap off the vial of quintessence as they spoke.

“So it’s magical--” Volux stared him down through the mask. “Okay, fine. It’s metaphysical steroids.”

Volux considered that. “Potentially,” they conceded. “But call it medically required. You won’t be addicted so long as you’re supervised for it.”

Even the supervision didn’t take away his misgivings. His vision shouldn’t swim and his sights shouldn’t be clouded by glowing orbs of gold. He found his energy levels spiked at strange moments-- the effects of the quintessence infusions were delayed sometimes, and he would wake in the middle of the night to find his body thrummed with energy. Sudden attacks of laughter were almost impossible to stifle. One time, Hyladra scored a hit to his kidney. He’d yelped, the high sound turning to a rapid giggling fit. The pain vanished in a wave of euphoria. Hyladra had sat with him as he tried to breathe through it. “Keith,” she’d murmured, “what’s going on?”

“Quintessence treatment,” he gasped out between laughs. “It’s-- it’s to get me back to fighting.”

She hadn’t stormed out then. But Volux was subdued the next time they took Keith away from her, and Keith wondered what she’d said to them. After the third dose-- which happened near the end of the week he’d been given to train-- Volux sat him down and there were no sheets to ritually fold, no decanters to fill with purified water, and no incense or candles to tend to. It was just him and Volux.

“I’m sure you’ve been wondering at the Clarion doctrine,” Volux said.

Keith eyed them suspiciously. “I have,” he conceded. “From what I’ve learned, they’re like theological dinosaurs.”

But Volux was shaking their head. “Not quite. Things are more complex than they seem.” They sighed and removed their mask, tossing it onto the table as though it was trash, and not the symbol of their order and rank. “Their ideas on ranks are old-fashioned. Pre-Empire, they would have been considered normal. As that was ten thousand years ago, you can imagine they seem like they just evolved into Galra. Or whatever a dinosaur is.”

Keith thought about explaining what a dinosaur was, but they didn’t have time for it and he doubted either of them had the patience for the discussion anyway. “But their theology isn’t dated?”

“It’s radical,” Volux said. “New, dangerous, and extreme. When the Voice came to Gal, it was understood that only some could control its energies. The priests of old Gal already tamed some quintessence: their skill and powers were middling, but the Voice’s energies were simply another scale. With Her own support, the priests became Druids-- still clergy, but also weapons of the Empire.”

“And nobody ever questioned that?” Volux gave him a sharp look. “Not the weapon part-- that only the Druids could use the Voice’s energies. I mean, services are about communing with the Voice after all. What’s the difference between that and what the Druids do?”

“Those ignorant in the ways of quintessence manipulation did.” Keith winced at the rebuke. He shrugged at Volux, who sighed. “I shouldn’t be so harsh. You know little, which is far from your fault. What the services and rites do is allow those who are not Druids to partake in a sip of the Voice’s power. Through giving some of their own quintessence, the Voice fills them anew. It is a long process due to the danger of being overwhelmed.”

“And the Clarion want to remove that barrier-- remove Druids-- because they think… what? That you’re hiding something? That the Voice would disagree with Zarkon?” He paused. “The Emperor, I mean.”

Volux’s eyes widened because a different sort of mask settled on their features. “The latter, yes. They think the Voice would support a strict rank system, and that the Voice would give them the power to enforce it if only She could get around the abuses of the Druids. It’s nonsense, of course. The Voice struggles to understand individuality, let alone ranks.”

“Is that where the idea of the Chorus comes from? That she can’t understand individual people?”

“Partly,” Volux said. “She sees Galra as a whole. There are parts to the Chorus-- tenors, or drums, or even a difference between a war drum and a small drum-- but they form a whole through which She can interact with us.”

That left two questions. “What are the Druids to her, then?” Keith hesitated before giving in. He needed to know. “And why has she been so focused on me?”

Volux’s brow furrowed. “Think of us,” he said, “as conductors. That is what we are to Her. We direct the sections and singers into a grand symphony, complete with a choir and its Chorus. Druids are the closest to individuals that She knows. As for you Paladins: we’re not quite sure why She’s so focused on you. We have only ever had the Emperor to consider. Would you care for speculation, or should I spare you my rambling?”

“I need something more than my own worries,” Keith said. “Right now, I’m, uh, not sure what the fuck is going on.”

“Less swearing,” Volux said. “For your cover and for propriety’s sake.” Keith tried to process Volux’s parental chastisement but Volux was talking again before it fully went through. “The Voice is hard to understand. But She has always been possessive: there are… rumours, shall we say, of the Voice being aggressive towards the Emperor as well. That She has attempted to possess him before. She cares little for his connection with the Black Lion, just as little as She cares for yours with the Red Lion.”

“So she just wants me in the Chorus really badly?”

Volux shook their head. “It’s more than that. To want you in the Chorus would mean that she recognizes that you, as an individual, are not part of it. What concerns me-- worries me-- is that in the few instances among the Druids where the Voice has truly focused on someone as an individual, the Druid has gone mad.”

Keith’s heart dropped. “What?”

“When the Voice interacts with Her worshippers,” Volux said, “She touches them as a spider’s web does a passing fly. You see and feel a piece of Her-- a tendril of Her consciousness. The Druids direct that tendril and ease it into the mind of the Galra. What has happened to you, so far, is beyond what any non-Druid has experienced. She has never chased someone so relentlessly, other than powerful Druids and the Emperor himself.”

“I’m more concerned about the mind obliteration, Volux.”

Volux huffed out a small laugh. “Yes, that part is the most immediate concern. The Clarion’s desire to remove the Druids from the process of communing with the Voice comes from the deluded belief that the Druids have isolated the Galra from Her. That we’ve warped Her message and desires, that we lie about protecting the Galra from the Voice’s power. Someone who does not understand how to wield the quintessence the Voice is comprised of cannot defend themselves from the tempest that is the Voice. They will be washed away, their mind destroyed and their quintessence fully absorbed into the Chorus.”

Lead sat in Keith’s stomach. “And this has happened even to Druids?”

Volux nodded. “Several times throughout history. High Druid Haggar’s predecessor attempted to divine the nature of quintessence and spoke to the Voice. He tried to trace the Chorus back to its first few notes. A group of his apprentices could only watch, helpless, as the currents dragged him out of his body and into a sea of sound. All that was left of him was a husk of his body. No infusions of quintessence or pleading with the Voice could restore him.”

“Do the Clarions know this story?”

“We don’t advertise it,” Volux said dryly. “It might make the meeker among us afraid to commune. But the Clarion have connections among the Druids. They know these stories.”

“Then why are Druids supporting them?” Keith pressed. “Why are the Clarions so convinced that communing directly is a good idea?”

“Because some Druids believe the former High Druid brought it on himself.” Volux didn’t elaborate, and Keith wondered why. He didn’t have time to ask. “The Clarion and its Druid collaborators are convinced that the Voice’s power can only be wielded by true believers. Someone like myself-- a known supporter of High Druid Haggar-- can only touch its surface power. Yet, to the Clarion and collaborators, the ruling ‘elite’ of the Druids prevents the stronger believers from reaching their true potential. And thus results Galra like Druid Vyfa, someone who harboured Clarion cells and made them erya.”

“Are erya only for Druids?” Keith paused. “If I join, they might ask me to use an erya--”

“Under no circumstances should you do so.” Volux was frowning. “Erya are dangerous, even without the Voice’s fascination with you. They are made by high-ranking Druids so that they may explore the Chorus and channel the Voice’s quintessence more easily. The erya being passed around among the Chorus are shoddily made: their creators only know what they look like, and what their purpose is. There have been cases where amateur erya, instead of allowing communing with the Voice, have put people into contact with other beings-- malicious and stranger beings than the Voice.”

Keith frowned back. “Would those be… similar to the Voice? Maybe her people?”

“Unlikely,” Volux said. “Long ago, we investigated the area of space She came from. All that remained were scorched planets with no signs of civilization. When we went further, even the planets and stars disappeared.”

Empty space-- not even stars. He tried not to shudder. There was something terrifying about that. A place where nothing existed; a place where what had once been, was no longer. It was entropy in action, an inevitable flaw in the universe that would-- in billions of years-- swallow every galaxy whole. He wondered if that haunted Zarkon. He’d lived for ten thousand years. How much longer would he stay alive? Would he see stars around Gal die, their explosions only living long enough to raze the life around them?

“We should dance,” Volux said, as though desperate to fill the silence. “Teach you, I mean. The Emperor will arrive soon to evaluate your progress. If it is not sufficient, he will not approve the final phase of the mission.”

Keith shook his head. “And what about my writing? Or my reading?”

“I will be there. I am assigned to the temple for the duration of your infiltration. You will never be made to do anything you cannot-- and if it comes to it, your bond with Hyladra will save the rest.” Volux stood, their robes swishing with the motion. They were usually cunning and unreadable, but this time they looked strained. They looked like they had something they desperately wanted to say but refused to let out. Their hand jabbed out insistently. “Keith--”

“Keirin,” Keith said. Volux blinked. “If I have to get it right, you should too.”

Volux stared and then laughed. “You’re blending in so well,” Volux crooned. “Perhaps the human in you will be gone soon enough.”

Cruel words, Keith thought, from a mercurial Galra. The flash of anger that surged through him died to embers in seconds. “It’s in my blood and bone, Volux. This can’t take away my birthright.”

Volux’s eyes glinted as they smiled. “We’ll see, _Keirin_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing yesterday's update! Real life got in the way. Schedule is back to normal now. Thank you guys for reading! <3


	23. Chapter 23

“Who is your mother?” Hyladra asked. Her fingers carded through his hair. Sharp nails dragged lightly against his scalp.

“Daia,” Keith said. He forced back a yawn. “She is Tuvani.”

“Good,” Hyladra said. Her fingers began to move in a circle, brushing against the base of his ears. A low purr built in his chest. “Your father?”

“Dead.” The words were strikingly final. “He was also Tuvani, but died in service of the Empire. His name was--” His mind blanked for a dangerous moment. Then the name came rushing back. “His name was Tyral. The grief of his loss still leaves me without voice.”

“You’ve picked up the traditional way of speaking,” Hyladra murmured. “It will suit your cover well. But I know you forgot his name.”

Keith slumped back. She didn’t stop kneading his scalp, though, so he had that at least. “It’s a lot to take in. I can pick out Daia from a lineup, sure, but not much else. She knows we’re using her family, right?”

“She knows enough to nod and agree.” Hyladra ruffled his ears; Keith jerked forward, away from her touch. The drowsiness lifted like a morning fog against the sun. “Consider yourself lucky you have no siblings.”

“Small favours,” Keith said. He rubbed at his face. He didn’t cringe at the fur anymore-- not because he’d embraced it, but because it’d been a constant throughout the week, and he needed to get over it for his cover to hold. “I’m Keirin of the Tuvani.” Hyladra nodded. “My mother is Daia of the Tuvani; my father, Tyral of the Tuvani, is dead. I grew up not on Gal, but in one of the colonies.” His brow furrowed. “Vra-31. I went to a private school based around the military. I can fight well, though my writing is atrocious. My reading is acceptable, largely because we’re going to open up the bond and you’ll be doing the reading.”

Hyladra laughed, as though the prospect of opening the bond wasn’t abjectly terrifying. “I will be,” she said. “I promise to give only the finest narration, Keirin.”

Keith refused to shudder at the name. It came from her so naturally, as though he’d never been anything but. She should be the one doing this, he thought. The idea of subterfuge came easily to her. She didn’t trip over names or fumble her backstory. Keirin was as easy as Keith to her. If it wasn’t for his change, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

Hyladra sighed. “Your face is so open,” she said. “I can see your worry-- I can feel it, if I let myself. Keith, I promise you that, even if you slip, nobody will guess the truth. The idea of the human Red Paladin turning into a Galra and then proceeding to volunteer to infiltrate the Clarion is so ridiculous that if I hadn’t seen it first-hand, I’d laugh the storyteller from the station.

“They don’t need to guess that, though.” Keith denied himself the luxury of flopping on the ground. Instead, he stood. “They just need to guess that I’m a plant-- that my backstory is fake. We’ve managed to excuse my lackluster abilities in anything but fighting as me simply embracing old traditions I know little about. But why would I get a position on Central Command? Why is my writing atrocious? If I’m asked anything about detailed Galran history--”

“They won’t,” Hyladra said. “Keith, you’ll find that very few Galra can recite anything about Galra history. The basics, of course, are taught to us as children. But if you’re thinking the Clarion have any sort of Druidic lore or scholarly knowledge, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Keith squinted at her. “...What do you mean? Is history not a big subject for your schools?”

“Sort of,” Hyladra hedged. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Less utilitarian subjects are for the Druids, whose capability with quintessence and the Voice is supported by knowledge of the past. But for a soldier, what they need is combat training, science, and an ethical education.”

Keith doubted the Empire’s ‘ethics’ would be familiar or particularly kind to humans. “What about past strategies? Wars?”

“That is part of combat training,” Hyladra said. “They’re not... “ She sighed. “We’re taught of the battles, not their purpose or meaning. If you become an officer, you receive education from specially chosen Druids at specially chosen schools. But your cadets and rank and file Galra are no more educated than you would be after a week of history lessons.”

How educated were his Galra compared to other Galra? He’d always had the impression that Kymin and Hyladra were sophisticated and cultured. Yet Kymin had called Hyladra’s dialect and accent as worker Galran. “You know some about the arts, though. About things like the Captain of Thorns.”

She shook her head. “That’s common fiction. Kymin is far better educated than me, though I will say that I did make efforts to become more educated than a Galra of my station.”

Which meant that-- in comparison to other cadets-- Kymin was light years ahead of most. Was he being groomed to be an officer already? It made sense. For all the talk among the Galra of rank becoming a thing of the past, it still dictated so much. Kymin was a Yexin; Hyladra was a Harim. Whatever Hyladra learned, it was of her own volition. Meanwhile, Kymin received education and accolades because he was a Yexin.

That was unfair, he thought. Kymin was friendly and clever and maybe a touch arrogant, but then did Keith have stones to throw about that? Probably not. How did Kymin felt about the class differences? He’d always seemed skittish and abrupt when problems with the Galra were brought up. Keith had almost burned bridges with Kymin by confronting him, he suspected.

“You’ve wanted to be an officer since you were a child.” Keith frowned to himself. “But what about others? Like Thace? He’s a Tuvani.”

“He would have been taught by a Druid,” Hyladra said. “In times of war, that would mean visiting the Temple daily. In times of relative peace-- such as the time before the reappearance of Voltron-- mass classes would be held on Gal.”

Keith tried to absorb it. While he’d never argue that education on Earth was equal or fair, at least an effort was made where he was from to provide the basics. The Galran education system didn’t even care for that. “What do you know about the Alteans?” he asked.

Hyladra’s brow furrowed. “They’re old enemies,” she said. “They were defeated when they attempted to strike down the Emperor. They were vicious, war-lovers, and saw strength not as prowess but in cunning. They tried to turn us against each other.”

Keith’s heart sunk. “What about the Lions?”

Something flickered in her expression. “Technological marvels. Creations of the Galra, but the Alteans stole the plans for them. We were too eager to impress them to show them our full might. It was our mistake.”

“And what of the fact that they’re back?”

Hyladra seemed to think that over. “A bad omen. But we’re different this time. We won’t stand for their manipulations.” She looked at him in a glance. Her shyness hid something-- an almost guilt. “I know you think of them as allies.”

He swallowed the bile that wanted to come out. The Alteans had been kind to him-- Coran played caretaker well, if a bit oddly, while Allura had been nothing but kind. Hard and determined, yes, but those weren’t flaws in a warzone. Without her, Voltron would never have formed. And her pain… He’d seen her in the command room, the twisted ghost of her father poisoning her mind. She’d been strong enough to see through it. She’d been strong enough to keep going.

Keith wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do that. If he’d known one of his parents, he’d never let go. Love would blind him. It already did sometimes.

“Keith?” Hyladra said. She was quiet and hesitant.

Keith shook his head. “I know that’s what you’ve learned. But when I met the Alteans, they were--” What? They’d been desperate. They hadn’t been thrilled with the strange creatures that’d invaded the Castle of Lions, but he hadn’t seen the kind of xenophobia the Galra had. “They were kind.”

“That’s what they were to us,” Hyladra said. “They came to us and brought us into the galaxy’s politics. But we were tools. They sent us into battles that they didn’t wish to fight; they took our best and brightest and turned them against their own people.”

Could Hyladra name the battles? Could she name those who’d turned against their own kind? He wanted to ask that, but it risked setting a bridge ablaze. “And that’s how they made the Lions?”

Hyladra nodded eagerly. “I didn’t just learn this in school!” She pressed her nose to his; he blinked, but didn’t jerk back, which pleased her, judging by her grin. “It is known in tales and books and even the Emperor has said it. When we first learned Voltron had returned, he gave a magnificent speech.”

Peddling, Keith mused, the same lies that’d been peddled for millennia. What had happened to the old books that said otherwise? Or the data from news reports, recorded messages, and stories passed down from ancestors? Zarkon-- the Emperor-- had managed to eradicate them. Nothing remained to contradict him. Nothing except for the two Alteans that he relentlessly chased. Maybe it was about more than the Lions: maybe it was about protecting his story too.

He leaned into Hyladra. “I see.” Weak words, and he could feel her straighten, ready to challenge them. “If the Alteans are lying, then they’ll need to be confronted. But what if the Emperor is lying? Wouldn’t he have controlled the tales and books? HIstory is written by the victor, after all.”

Hyladra ran her fingers down his scalp, to his nape. “I consider this only for your sake,” she warned. “If the Emperor was lying, then there would have to be a reason for it. He only wants the best for us, Keirin.” She couldn’t see him wince at the name. “Even humanity.”

That burned in ways he didn’t want to say. “What about the Balmerans?”

“Who?”

Keith blinked. “...The Balmerans?” Her shadow, looming over him, shrugged. “They were enslaved to harvest crystals from the Balmera they lived on.”

“I’ve heard of Balmera,” Hyladra said, “but I didn’t realize any poor soul was stuck on one of the beasts.”

The Balmerans had been poor souls only in that the Galra enslaved them. Otherwise, they loved the Balmera and their culture. Keith forced his jaw to unclench. “They wanted to be there. They didn’t want to help the army kill it--”

“Perhaps the attachment didn’t understand the delicate nature of a Balmera,” Hyladra said. “And the people-- Balmerans?-- they would have harvested the crystals anyway.”

“Not for the Galra.” Hyladra’s touch drew to a halt. “Not at that rate. The Empire was going to bleed them dry, Hyladra. It was going to kill the Balmera, leaving the Balmerans to die, and then it was going to move on to the next one. If any remain. Tell me, how many are left?”

Hyladra didn’t speak for a moment. “A handful,” she admitted. “They have faced… environmental pressures.”

Which was code for overhunting and destruction. What else could the Balmera be used for? Were their corpses harvested and the last bits of quintessence drained from the petrified sinew and blood? Keith shuddered. Hyladra’s fingers smooth over the back of his head. “And what happened to those who live on them? You didn’t know people were there. That’s one lie that’s been spread.”

Her head shook in the shadow. Her hair, clipped short, bounced. He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep a thousand years and maybe Hyladra could come with him-- curl up and forget the things she’d heard, the lies she’d been told, and they could figure things out when the Empire was gone and things were less tangled like a ball of string.

“I will investigate it,” she said. He didn’t know if he trusted that. “For now, though, you should return to studying. You know your family song?”

“Some of it.” He dragged himself to his feet. “I know less the words and more the sounds-- about half of it before the words get jumbled.”

Hyladra’s eyes were bright as her expression turned thoughtful. “Do the words trill?”

“They do. Does that mean something?” Was she even allowed to ask questions like that? Family songs were so personal, after all, and he didn’t know how Thace would feel about him sharing information. But he’d already said it, he supposed.

Hyladra nodded. “Those are sections where you are meant to imitate the Voice’s thunder. It’s the most difficult part of a song outside of higher ranked ones: mine blessedly contains nothing of the sort. No Tuvani would be shocked if you had to stop there. I’d request that Thace write out so we can teach you further, but there’s no rush.”

Other Tuvani would know parts of the song. He supposed he could ask one of them if there were any. They might know the segment. Family songs were split into multiple categories: by region, by town, and by rank. They’d been composed so long ago, only legends remained of those who’d done it. For Keith’s false family, it’d been Jacin of the Cinderpaw, a bard who’d followed heroes and adventurers on legendary quests. He’d been given a few stories: his favourite had been of Jacin’s adventure into the heart of one of Gal’s largest volcanos.

In his old age, in the time of the Great Heroes, Jacin had composed the Tuvani song. It was as long as every reed on Gal. It would take lifetimes to sing the entire piece, it was said, and so the Tuvani divided it up among each other by lot. Thace’s family had received part of the crescendo, a great honour. At the time, the crescendo had been about the start of the universe; now, in the age of the Voice, it was simply the sound of the Voice’s storm. It was less impressive, in Keith’s opinion. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he could change it, especially as he wasn’t Tuvani. Or a Galra, really.

Other ranks had received their songs in the time of Great Heroes. Nobody knew the date of that time, or if the time had even existed, but everyone had pieces of songs. When daring researchers shared their songs among each other, they found that the starts and ends could sometimes be stitched together. Volux had played him a piece from the rank of obsidian miners. The miners had been paid to share their songs, and from that single colony, a symphony had risen. It’d been swiftly suppressed by the Druids as heretical, but recordings existed.

“If you tell anyone I did this,” Volux had said before pressing play, “I will space you myself. The songs aren’t meant to be played together, according to orthodox doctrine. Depending on who you talk to, to do so would be to summon the afterlife to our realm or cause the end of the world. The most common belief, however, is that some great evil will appear and enslave us all. Useless stuff, impossible as changing where the sun rises, but superstition is popular when you have proof of otherworldly beings like the Voice.”

The song itself had been beautiful. The words were low and dark, like the caverns the miners lived in, and the few high notes were like wind whistling in the upper tunnels. Sudden stops made him think of mining picks chipping away at the obsidian. The researchers had chosen-- or ended up with-- warm voices that made him think of the volcanic heat that would have been close by to the miners. The song had lasted an hour. When it ended, it’d ended suddenly. They’d only been able to convince four families to give their pieces.

It was estimated that there were several hundreds throughout the rank. Some families had duplicates, not that they realized it. Inability to speak Ancient Galra, different intonations from different regions, and cloudy memories had created sharp differences that only disappeared under intense scrutiny. The researchers had found an obsidian miner family living in the capital who sang the same song as a family that lived in the ash wastelands. They were separated by several deserts, an inland ocean, and mountains. They’d never met. They didn’t even know one another existed, and records showed they hadn’t had recorded contact. Yet they sang the same song, barring the natural deviations.

“How many people speak Ancient Galra?” he’d asked Volux.

Volux seemed to consider the question. “Less than a hundred,” Volux said. “Research is confined to Druids, and learning it is a process of a lifetime. I myself speak little and less.”

“If you studied, could you find out the meaning of your family song?”

Volux laughed. “That would require me to have one.” Keith blanched. He opened his mouth to demand an answer, but Volux intercepted him. “Druids have one song: the song of the Voice. When we are discovered to have our ability with quintessence, we are removed from our families. It is viewed as unwise to taint us with the daily concerns of life. It is better for us to learn from birth the language of the Voice and the movements of quintessence.”

Keith frowned. The Druids, he thought, were pretty much evil Jedi, then. He shook his head. “If someone were to give a Druid their family song--”

“It could be translated, yes. Theoretically. In practice, it would never be. The person would be better off going to some illicit researcher whose nose is buried in books, away from the embrace of the Voice.”

“You’re very much against knowing what the songs are.” Keith tried to pick apart Volux’s expression, but it was the usual bland smugness.

Their shrug didn’t help matters. “I have no feelings either way. If High Druid Haggar wished to order the mass translation of the songs, I would follow her command. But custom demands secrecy of the contents. They are seen as the province of the family who sings it. Those moments where Galra sing it-- such as your party and acceptance into the community-- are sacred. Attendees would never repeat the words.”

Then why had Thace given him some of the words to his family song? The question still plagued him, days later. He knew the words as well as the moment Thace had told him them: a’yen trikwe vfa lzi. He’d tried to watch for the words in Thace’s recording, but he didn’t pick them up. He suspected they were in the song to the Voice. It annoyed him, if he was honest. Why the cryptic instruction to remember them? Had Thace known Keith would learn his family song? But that was impossible, because it wasn’t like the Voice warned people. She did things suddenly, on her own whim.

Those weren’t the most pressing questions, though. The most pressing question was their meaning. He suspected that all his questions about Thace’s family song would be answered if he knew their meaning. It would leave, of course, his hundreds of other questions. He needed to start somewhere, though, and he wondered and worried if the words would ever dull in his mind. He’d thought of writing them in English, but how would he even transliterate Ancient Galran? Some of the sounds Thace had made didn’t exist in English. Even worse, some of it might not even exist in human languages: every time he muttered the phrase to himself, he found it lacking. There were growls to it he couldn’t do.

Except now. When he said it now, it was complete. It didn’t encourage him to say it-- it made him reluctant. It was another nail in the coffin of his humanity.

“Keith?” Hyladra asked, voice soft. “Come back to me, wherever you are.”

Keith blinked. “Sorry.” A hand traced his left ear. It flicked on impulse, as though chastising Hyladra. “Got caught up in memories.” He leaned forward, away from Hyladra, and got to his feet. “There’s just-- a lot happening.”

“Infiltration and spying is a complex business,” she said. “It’s a rare operation for the Galra. It’s hardly like we can infiltrate other races.”

“I know.” Keith wanted to dig his nails into his palms, but that would go beyond hurting. It’d gore his hands. “...You must send in Galra to the Clarion, though. And other rebels.”

Hyladra nodded slowly. “There are some Galra who can play the part. Few. Subterfuge is not in our blood. But there are cases where skilled Galra are sent to the Clarion or other factions.”

“If I hadn’t volunteered, would someone else have been sent?”

“Possibly,” Hyladra allowed. “Spies are in short supply, and identities are difficult to create. Everything is recorded for us: DNA, family lines, and personal history. A spy lives under their cover for as long as possible. Removing someone from that cover and transplanting them to something new is… time consuming. Potentially wasteful as well.”

“So you guys only do, uh, like deep cover?” Hyladra gave him a blank look. “Nevermind. Was it just as hard to create something for me?”

“As you’re from the colonies, less so. Yet it still required quite a bit of effort. These factions track the system for changes, and it is only by the end of this week that you’ll have your identity ready. Even then, you must be skilled and discreet. Scrutiny could rouse investigation.” She sighed. “If you fail-- or if you hadn’t volunteered-- a investigation and purging would have been ordered. It would have been an unpleasant event.”

What would Zarkon’s forces have done? Torture? Quintessence manipulation to drag the truth from people? What sins would get people purged? He imagined someone finding out Kymin’s strange doubts that he kept wrapped up in a veneer of patriotism. It could leave him in disgrace-- or dead. Wrin wouldn’t have survived. Thace’s secrets, whatever they were, would have been laid bare.

If Keith and those around him were lucky, they’d escape the purging untouched. If they were unlucky, they’d all be dead, and Keith would remain in chains. It tempting to question Hyladra about investigations and purgings, but those were unpleasant things, and she looked tired and worn. Her warmth tried to hide it. He looked into her eyes and basked in her smile, and offered a hand.

She took it. They spent the last few minutes as Hyladra and Keith, and when Volux knocked, they parted with a quick kiss.

He walked in silence with Volux. The Druid strode ahead, their mask firmly in place. They seemed determined not to talk or even look at Keith. He tried to think of what he could have done to offend them. Nothing came to mind. It was tempting to dismiss Volux’s mood as part of the tides and position of the stars, but Volux’s capriciousness had always been ominous.

“You’re unhappy,” Keith said.

Volux sniffed. “Obvious. Do you have anything else asinine to say?”

Keith thought of playing the wounded friend, but he wasn’t wounded and he wasn’t even sure he was Volux’s friend. “What happened? You’re angry about something, but everything’s gone according to plan.” He frowned. “At least, from what I can see.”

“You won’t think that for long,” Volux muttered. They drew to a stop and shook their head. “The Emperor wants to evaluate you.”

“That’s not unexpected.”

Volux sighed, ragged and tired. “You’re not ready. You’ve received training, yes, and it’s been deliberate and high quality. But this operation is dangerous, particularly with your inability to read or write.”

“It’s bad,” Keith said, “but we’ve talked about how to dodge questions and tasks. I’ve been studying so I can do basic things. And most of the time, I’ll be folding things. If I play this right--”

“If,” Volux echoed. “If. What a damnable word.” The hall ended beside a terminal. The door-- round and split diagonally-- opened at Volux’s touch. The hall continued, its walls lined by doors. “The third door on the right. Show what you’ve learned to the Emperor. Attempt not to embarrass me.”

Volux didn’t wait. They abandoned him and vanished down the halls. Keith thought about calling out to them, but what did it matter? Volux would just be annoyed. Instead, Keith straightened his temple uniform-- similar to the standard military one, if with more subdued colours-- and slunk over to the door. He tapped the keypad with a padded forefinger and tried not to shrink when the door slid open.

Zarkon waited at a table, dressed in clothes that Keith knew were civilian at best. A tablet was in his hands. He didn’t look up as Keith walked in. “You’re alone?” he asked.

Keith eyed Zarkon-- the Emperor. “I am.” He looked around the room, noting the cloth, candles, and pitchers strewn throughout the room. They were out of place in the sleek metals and sharp edges of the station’s interior. “Are we going straight to the tests, or do you have something to say?” Keith barely stopped himself from commenting on Zarkon’s attire. The Emperor’s. HIs lips twitched. They were the Emperor’s new clothes, and he wondered if Zarkon’s motives would be as transparent.

Zarkon reflected on the question. “No,” he decided. “I have little to say. Prepare the cloth in the Dune fashion-- it is an evening service. You have as much time as you please.”

Zarkon didn’t even watch him do it. Keith took the thin filmy sheet of cloth by the edges. HIs claws hooked onto the threads, and he winced as he tried to fold it into the polygonal shape it needed to be. He’d spent hours practicing the motions. Volux had been demanding and strict. Pulled threads earned a quick scolding. He’d learned, after the third time, how to unhook his nails. It took a small flick of the cloth to free himself. From there, it was a matter of turns and twisting the cloth. It ended in a folded polygon that the pitcher could be cradled in.

He finished in twenty seconds. He placed the pitcher inside with the proper series of bows and hand gestures at it. The moments where he felt stupid were overshadowed by the awkwardness of waiting for Zarkon to acknowledge him.

Seconds ticked by, ending in minutes. Zarkon kept reading. In the void of action, he filled it by fiddling with a lone candle. It smelled like wood smoke and ashy. Its smooth wax was spotted by little grooves. He thought about asking for Zarkon to evaluate, but a painful shyness dragged him back into silence. Boredom left his hands to make busy work: He arranged a trio of candles around the pitcher, turning the Dune evening set up into something Ocean evening. He hated it. He’d been trained as a fighter pilot. He’d learned basic engineering, history, law, and leadership. Pilots were meant to lead military expeditions. Before Shiro vanished, Keith had been on the fast-track for command. Only his personality difficulties held him back.

Now he was folding cloth, arranging candles, and filling water pitchers. He didn’t mean to sneer at those who did it for a living. He knew that menial work was hard work-- work that required skill and training and focus. Back on Earth, before the military, he’d done dishwashing, bussing, and other restaurant work. But it wasn’t a choice, just like this temple-tending wasn’t. Being a pilot had been one.

Choice didn’t factor into things anymore. He did what he could, under a thousand pressures, and he hoped he didn’t fuck things up too bad. “Emperor,” Keith said, though the words were acid on his tongue, burning away at the flesh until only blood and bone remained. “I have completed Dune evening and transformed it into Ocean evening. Does this meet your requirements, sir?”

Zarkon looked up from his tablet. Keith stared, half horrified, as Zarkon blinked at him. “...Pardon?”

Keith grit his teeth. “I did the cloth things. And the candles. Even threw in a pitcher. It’s-- it’s what Volux taught me. It good enough, or should I throw in a dance too?”

Zarkon gave the display a dubious look. “Do dances generally accompany these arrangements?”

“Sometimes,” Keith hedged. “...You don’t seem to know much about temple-tending.”

“I don’t,” Zarkon said. “ No more than the usual attendee.” He leaned forward and reached out with a lone index finger and tugged at the folded cloth’s corner. The many twists and turns kept it from collapsing. “Do a dance, I suppose.”

Keith frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be evaluating me?”

“As though I have the qualifications for that,” Zarkon said. “I have knowledge of many things, Paladin, but temple-tending was never one of them.” He waved a bare hand at Keith. It was still massive, yet it was less imposing without the gauntlet. “Dance! And I’ll pretend I have the ability to judge.”

“Then why are we doing this?” Keith took the starting position of the Ways of the Sun anyway. His hands were high above his head, and they moved progressively downward as he swayed, spun, and stretched. He mimicked the movements of the sun-- a sun that belonged to a different planet. When his hands reached chest level, he went to his knees, bowing his head. He was grateful for that: his knees hurt from the sudden collapse. A few seconds passed, and he let his arms down and began to chant the prayer to the Sun’s Light. He didn’t know what the words meant, but they were important as Volux had repeatedly told him. They were said to be the words that conjured the sun back to life. He stumbled over the final words, but it didn’t matter. He surged to his feet, his muscles complaining at the sudden movement. His arms lifted. He spun again and again, his clothes fluttering at the sudden wind.

“You’re leaning to the side,” Zarkon said. “Are you supposed to do that?”

“Be quiet,” Keith ground out. His spinning ended and he faced the front, chest puffed out and his arms up. “Praise the Sun and the Voice!”

Zarkon stared at him. “What terribly jarring words. I suppose you were graceful. The words were strange, but fluid. Barring one case.”

“I learned it in ten minutes,” he said. But it didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was him getting it right-- or good enough for people to overlook the stumbles. He shook his head. “Should I dance again? Or another set up?”

“What would you do mid-service on a day of Life?”

Galran customs, Keith thought sourly, were intricate and strange and impractical. But he knew what to do. It was another dance-- one a little less dumb looking than the Sun’s, which was a small blessing. It looked strangely modern. The motions were quick, geometric, and full of pauses. It was meant to represent the stages of life: each movement was a Galran year. The first half of the dance was painless, but by the end, his muscles ached from tensing up and locking into the required shapes. The lack of sound didn’t help matters either.

Zarkon’s eyes were glued to him. What they saw, Keith didn’t know. As Keith straightened his clothes and stared at the opposite wall, Zarkon kept watching. “I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet…”

Keith frowned. “What?”

“Your dancing,” Zarkon said. “You’re strangely skilled. Fighting requires control of the body, yes, but I am an exceedingly good warrior who cannot dance.”

Keith gave up on standing. He pulled out a chair and slumped into it. “I don’t know. It just happens?” He wanted to go sleep for a thousand years. “I guess it’s from the agility and acrobatic stuff I’ve done. You guys don’t seem big on it.” Not that he blamed them. Even with quintessence, druids, and other advanced healing, fucking up your leg would put you out of commission and risk lasting injury. He’d seen it take out humans whose bones were denser. Even if the Galra seemed made for gymnastics and agility, it came with tradeoffs.

“Our forms are limiting, even in their grace.” Zarkon put his tablet down. “I’ll permit your operation.”

Keith eyed Zarkon. “That’s sudden. My dances weren’t that good. Why are you greenlighting this?”

“Greenlight?”

He considered the Galra buttons he’d seen. “Yellow light. A go ahead.”

“Your dancing was quite charming,” Zarkon said, “but I permit this because you submitted.”

It sent a chill down his spine. “What?”

“I told you to dance, and you did.” Zarkon smiled thinly. “I told you to arrange cloths and candles, and you did. This is behaviour I would not naturally expect from you. Your fire has been noted by your Lion-- but it’s also been noted by those around you, Keith. I was unsure you could bend to the desires and whims of others.”

“I’ve played the prisoner well.” He thought he had, at least.

Zarkon nodded. “On your own terms. Only after careful and deliberate thought would you follow instructions. You did nothing that your own nature wouldn’t let you do.”

Even the killings, he wanted to ask. But he didn’t want an answer. “And you think that I disdain this kind of work.”

“I think you disdain playing the servant to Galra,” Zarkon said. “I am only the beginning of this humiliation, and I was uncertain that you’d even dance for me. You know this will not be pleasant work.”

“It’s necessary work.” Zarkon tilted his head to the side as Keith spoke. “That makes it bearable. And even the training… it’s shown me things.”

“Like?”

“What you guys believe. About family songs.” He frowned to himself. “What I don’t understand is what the Voice is. You guys found it in another part of space. But it’s part of you? You commune with it, and it seems to understand and know the Galra. You’re the one who got the Galra to embrace it. Do you know what it is?”

Zarkon tapped his claws against the metal and glass table. His brow furrowed in thought. “Those are secrets, you understand. Not military secrets or intelligence ones, but esoteric secrets. Mystical secrets. While I understand your curiosity, I cannot simply share such information. The tenets I would violate by doing so--”

“I’m going to find out,” Keith said. He knew it, deep down. “She keeps reaching out to me. She wants to tell me things, and I know that’s going to be part of it. Isn’t it fair that I have warning first? I should know what I’m getting into. Especially since I’m putting myself at risk for you and your soldiers.”

“Persuasive,” Zarkon murmured. “And passionate. A stern scolding from a prisoner! I haven’t had one of those since the Alteans. You are right, of course. If the Voice continues to speak to you, She will tell you what happened. You may be one of the few who could understand it. I will give you a warning, then, and a bit of truth to let it go down easier: She has become part of us, but She was not at first. It took accepting Her and reaching out for the bond to form. She needed us to survive, and we needed Her strength and guidance for what we needed to do.”

“But? This is a warning too, after all.”

“Such a relationship changes people, particularly when one of the participants is… so different from the host.” Zarkon watched Keith, searching for a reaction. Keith refused to give him one. “You know that She is powerful and beyond most understanding. But if you let Her in, Keith, you will never be the same. If you wish to remain as you are, do not capitulate. But if you wish to understand, that is all you can do.”

Keith tried to absorb that. Panic froze his mind, and he wondered how deep he was already. “...That’s a hell of a send off.”

Zarkon laughed, a smile breaking free. “If you wish to improve it,” Zarkon said, “I would ask for another dance.”

His heart stopped. “Uh?”

Zarkon’s smile didn’t dim. Instead, it turned mischievous. “You’re a charming dancer. You’ll find many admirers at the temple, I believe. I myself may visit the temple for services instead of taking them privately.”

He flushed, the heat full-body rather than confined to his cheeks. His ears flicked down, the damnably emotive things. He was torn between awkwardness, outrage, and flattery. He didn’t want to think too hard on that. So he bolted to his feet and hustled to the door. What did he say as goodbye? He had to give one. Rudeness was fine with everyone but his captor. Even if his captor was strangely friendly and now strangely flirtatious. An innocent flirtatiousness, at least. Small favours.

He turned to look at Zarkon who still sat in his chair, his limbs languid and his expression calm. His lips were twitching as he examined Keith’s expression. “Say hello to Thace for me, will you?” Zarkon said.

His ears lowered. “I-- whatever,” he said. “Yes.” That wasn’t good enough. Zarkon shouldn’t know how flustered he was, but it was too late. “...Thank you.” For what, he wasn’t sure anymore. He ignored Zarkon’s light laugh as he darted out of the room. The halls were empty, and for that he was relieved. Nobody needed to know what had happened. No one, at least, other than him and Zarkon.

He hoped it stayed that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO it took me an age to write this but I'm back on schedule!! I'm really sorry guys. Update will be on Wednesday next week. Thank you guys, and I hope you all had a good holiday season! Happy 2017. <3


	24. an interlude from Shiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the warm welcome back! <3 Short update this time since I'm still getting back into the swing of things. I'll update again on Tuesday, and I hope you all enjoy season two!
> 
> (Replies to comments will go out Soon™!)

_He’s gone._

Pidge’s ashen face had been drawn and pained as she said it. She’d clutched a tablet in her hands, carrying what information she’d been able to harvest from transmissions. Allura stood behind her, a hand resting on Pidge’s shoulder. Pidge didn’t look bothered by it: her voice shook as she forced out the words. There was an attack. He hasn’t been seen since. Rumours say he’s either dead or on Gal.

They were the same thing. Gal’s defenses were less than Central Command’s, but it was deeper into Galra space, more established and with billions of people watching. Playing tricks with piloting and barrelling in wouldn’t get them far. It’d ram them straight into patrols, shields, and alarm systems. Rescuing Keith wasn’t a possibility.

Shiro didn’t want to think about the other option. He’d forced his smile to stay on his face and he’d offered reassuring words and whatever strength he had left, but alone, the thoughts crept in. If Keith was dead, he’d failed him. Keith had had an unshakeable faith in him. From the moment they’d met, Keith’s eyes had always gleamed, and his usually reluctant smiles were bright.

 _What are your intentions?_ a captain had asked him once, a few weeks into his time as a Garrison tutor. She’d been sharp and suspicious. Understandably so: the Garrison didn’t need scandals. And already, Shiro found Keith’s presence inserting itself into his schedule. He’d be eating supper and his phone would flash a notification. Piloting session with Keith in twenty minutes. Diplomatic procedures debate in an hour. Lunch with Keith. A black and white schedule was filled with the colour red, and it’d only been when the captain asked that he’d seen it around him.

 _I’m tutoring him_ , he’d said, bemused. _He’s a clever and talented cadet, but his personality is conflict-oriented and he seems isolated by that and his own abilities._

She’d eyed him. _Then you are aware of the boundaries you must have._

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t treat it as one. _He’s a student whose success I value. Nothing more._

She’d nodded, satisfied, and while other students started rumours or gossiped among each other, it never escalated. Keith didn’t care about what people said-- when did he ever?-- and the students were too happy with their gossip to do anything. Faculty trusted him. Months passed in quiet meetings and thoughtful discussions. Keith was brighter than even Shiro had thought. They spoke of things far beyond the curriculum and headlines: he listened to Keith’s quiet tones as he spoke about life in Toronto, and he wondered at how quickly Keith’s mind dissected Shiro’s talk of Japan.

 _I’ve never been,_ Keith said the first time it came up. He said it awkwardly and shyly, as though he should have magically gained the money, time, and opportunity as a poor orphan to visit Japan. _I’ve always wanted to go._

Shiro hadn’t understood what it meant to Keith at the time. He didn’t know Keith’s tangled history with his surname and heritage. All he knew was that Keith’s surname was Kogane, that he was Japanese-Canadian, and of course he’d want to visit Japan. Didn’t everyone want to visit their ancestors’ homeland? The first time Keith mentioned the desire, Shiro offered to show him around his hometown of Fukuoka if they were ever in the country at the same time.

Keith had stared at him with wide eyes. _I-- I’d like that._

Had it been cruel to offer? He’d wondered that after he’d stopped tutoring Keith and returned to duty. Over coffee and movies and working on cars and motorcycles, Keith let slip fragments of his past. Very little of it was kind. Had Keith taken the offer to show him around Fukuoka as a lifeline? Would he expect his feelings of being lost and untethered to vanish by visiting Japan? Shiro never gathered the courage to ask.

Instead, he found the mentor role vanishing from under him. No longer surrounded by whispering students and watching peers, his conduct… lapsed. If he were to put it flatteringly. He never touched Keith, though he knew it would be welcomed. He never asked Keith for things he knew Keith would give, even if it would pain him. But he’d sit in Keith’s cramped apartment and eat takeout and talk to Keith as though Keith wasn’t a subordinate or wasn’t someone he’d meant to mentor. Removed the situation, he thought of them as little disgraces. Unpleasant jokes about superiors that he’d never vocalize to anyone but close friends. Casual manners that were unbecoming of an officer in company with a subordinate. It’d been disgraceful. But he couldn’t stop.

He knew Keith nurtured an infatuation with him. Shiro didn’t know how serious it was, or if it lingered still. When the Galra had taken him, Shiro had thought of Keith as a younger friend whose affections he could only rebuff. In a year of distance, there’d been no opportunity for reflection other than a deep, abiding hunger for warm company. When he’d seen Keith-- older and darker yet still as warm to him as ever-- a weight had lifted from his chest. A rush of something he didn’t want to name had flowed through him when they’d stood outside Keith’s cabin. They’d looked at each other as old friends, but neither were the same.

Was Keith a friend? Always. But he’d looked at Keith with new eyes-- eyes that saw something more. To call the feeling unsettling would put it too mildly. It was alarming. Yet none of it mattered: Keith was out of reach.

Guilt flavoured every meal and laugh. He should have protected Keith. He’d known that Keith’s willingness to take risks put him at more danger than the others. Pidge was calculating; Hunk, reasonable. Lance’s impulsiveness was tempered by his sociability. Then there was Keith, chosen by the Red Lion for a reason. His record held a long list of infractions: orders, Keith had said once, were there as guidance. Shiro’s stare had spurred him on. As a subordinate in a chain of command, Keith was required to follow orders. But he took from them ideas.‘Patrol the quadrant N-45 for the next three weeks’ was distilled from complex orders about smuggling, communications, and international boundaries. Whatever entered N-45 would become Keith’s business. The regulations would be considered and discarded as needed.

Such statements had pushed Shiro to argue with Keith. The pilot needed to see the value of orders and organization, he’d thought, otherwise he’d find his career quickly finished. Shiro had been right: in his absence, something had happened that made Keith leave the Garrison. Or be discharged. Keith had never been clear on which, and it was highly possible that the Garrison wasn’t either. Keith could make things messy when he wanted to.

Regardless, Shiro had known Keith would do what he felt was necessary. He hadn’t felt surprised when he was told that Keith had fought Zarkon, because of course he would. Keith would see it as necessary, and Keith had never shied away from what he saw as necessary. It was a sense of responsibility that veered into arrogance. In this case, he’d saved the Paladins by doing it. He’d also destroyed the Red Lion in the process, leaving himself stranded.

In the early days-- what must have been months ago-- he’d been angry with Keith. There had been other solutions. Keith should have been more prepared for being stranded. He should have worked together with the others. Those protestations died the longer Keith was gone. Keith had had seconds to react. The other Paladins wouldn’t have had the speed nor the piloting skills to keep up with Zarkon. And if Shiro was honest, if he hadn’t been trapped by Haggar, he would have done the same. It was both their natures to take the lead. The difference was that Shiro was kinder about it.

 _He’s gone_ , Pidge had said. Shiro had comforted the other Paladins. He’d even promised to devise a rescue plan. Did it make him a bad person to offer false hope? Whether dead or on Gal, Keith was out of reach. He saw the weight of it on Allura and Coran’s shoulders. Voltron couldn’t form without him and the Red Lion, and Shiro found his mind fraying without the steady presence of Keith at his shoulder.

He’d do his duty, he told himself whenever he drowned in the thought of never seeing Keith again. He was the most experienced soldier and the highest-ranking. His responsibility to the others took precedence over whatever pain he felt. None of them needed to see it. It would only worsen the hurt and cripple the group.

The only ones who needed to know the rage and pain in him were the Galra.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When someone comes,” Adran gasped. “When someone comes-- someone new, someone whose voice touches the Chorus… We find them by a phrase. Is there any temple whose voice is as clear as this one? Never. It’s why, out of ten thousand temples, we come to this one.”
> 
> -Chapter 16

The new group arrived late. Lilya sat among the dancers, surrounded by pillows. “I don’t see why we need more people,” Joyn was complaining by the water pitchers. “It takes forever to coordinate routines, and now they want to toss in another dozen extra bodies? I really wonder what the Druids are thinking.”

Their leader, Friv, eyed Joyn from across the pitcher’s table. “It is not our place to wonder,” was all she said. Her rebukes always started gentle.

Not that Joyn paid attention to that. “Isn’t it?” Joyn’s nimble fingers wove a trio of flowers together, into a ruby crown. Lilya sighed to herself. Joyn still wanted to do a Mizra, then-- a solo performance where a dancer drew in the power of the Voice and performed according to Her will. Friv would never let him do it. For all of Joyn’s posturing and talent at decoration, his feet were leaden at the most crucial times. Joyn placed the crown his head. Lilya tried not to hiss at the arrogance. Only those performing Mizra were meant to use the Duskflower crowns. “We should focus on what we have,” Joyn declared, “and not worry about additions. I mean, Lilya still can’t fold a tapestry well, and she’s been here for months!”

Don’t say anything, she thought. Let Friv’s pinched lips and frown say what would otherwise get Lilya in trouble. “And you,” Friv said, “cannot dance anything involving the Moon. Be not so quick to scorn others when your own fur is dirty!”

Joyn looked stricken. His crown drooped into his eyes as his ears lowered. “...I’m sorry, Master Friv.” He removed the crown, though his thumbs rubbed against the soft petals. Lilya wondered at what it felt like: at her initiate level, she wasn’t allowed to touch Duskflowers. “I still think this is silly.”

“Then you’ve learned little while being here,” Friv said and sighed. “The purpose of the Voice is to embrace others-- for us to be a community. The Druids have seen our troupe as lacking in some way, and these are the additions they think will bring balance. Taking offense is foolish, for they only want to help!”

Joyn deflated further. “I just don’t see the lack, though. Do you?” Lilya winced. Friv didn’t respond: she didn’t need to. Her hand lifted to rest on Joyn’s shoulder. Her fingers clamped down, and Friv leaned in to whisper something to Joyn. Whatever was said, Lilya didn’t hear. But it was enough to make Joyn nod shakily and stumble away. Maybe she’d threatened to remove his dancing privileges, Lilya mused. She tried not to feel any vindictive pleasure from that. It was unseemly, and taking joy in others’ pain undermined the community.

She had to keep reminding herself of that as time passed, sluggish as any syrup from a cactus. The ships had to be delayed, someone was saying. They were supposed to arrive a long time ago, and the Galra Empire ran on a strict schedule! Some of the younger initiates whispered between themselves about attacks from Voltron, but that was foolishness. They’d barely escaped their idiotic attack last time. Even if Zarkon still had the Red Paladin-- and nobody was quite sure of that anymore-- attacking again while down a Lion seemed a bad military move. But then she’d never gone to school for it, and she’d never cared to. Maybe she’d ask her moon what they thought. Lahar worked in the tactical division, collecting statistics and producing charts. They’d know far more than the other initiates.

Someone knocked on the door. It roused a few tenders, largely the older ones. It was understood, among the Galra, that the tenders were to live separately from the rest of the community, undisturbed whenever in the temple. People murmured to each other; Lilya felt their excitement rising. It had to be the new arrivals, or news of their fate. She smoothed her robes out and tightened her belt. Her fur was groomed and oiled by perfumes. Flowers were threaded into her long hair. It was the one bit of vanity she allowed herself. Temple tenders were meant to be beauty personified, for the glory of the Voice. Lilya had never failed in that, even as her folded tapestries crinkled or their sharp lines sagged.

Friv opened the door a crack. Lilya couldn’t see her face, but she watched as Friv leaned back before she slipped out of the room. “They’re dead,” someone tried to whisper. In the room’s silence, it was too loud. She watched their ears flatten as people turned to stare at them. Lilya bit back a laugh when they shied away from the spotlight, taking refuge in a corner. The misstep would be forgotten soon, no matter what had delayed the travellers, but for now, she enjoyed the sudden silence. Nobody wanted to speak after something so unlucky had been said.

While she waited, Lilya wove strands of reeds together. Their red colour was tinged yellow from the heat of the room. Woven together, the sheen from the lights and their own glow made her think of Gal’s sands. She ignored those around her as they milled around. Their unease grated against her senses. When the door behind her opened, she didn’t look up.

“They’ve arrived,” Friv announced. Sighs of relief filled the room. “There were some… delays. But they await us in the temple’s main rooms.” Lilya glanced over her to shoulder. Friv’s face broadcasted her anxiety. What had happened? What were the delays? Nobody asked, though she was sure there’d be a dozen rumours floating around before someone managed to dig out the truth from one of the new devotees.

The new devotees were in a line, their bags at their feet. They were dressed in soft purple robes and thin slippers. Their backs were straight and their eyes forward, as though they’d come from a military academy. Which some of them might have: it wasn’t unusual for those who found themselves ill-fitted there to turn to the Voice’s embrace. One in particular-- a Galra with dark fur-- had a puffed out chest as though they were the greatest thing aboard. She sighed to herself. The last thing she wanted was another Joyn.

“Introduce yourselves,” Friv instructed from the front. “In the traditional way!”

Only two devotees were notable. One was the puffed out chest one-- they were from Gal, an expert at flower arrangements, and came from a high rank. “I have devoted myself to the Voice,” they said gravely, “due to a dream I had.”

Lilya swallowed back annoyance. This man-- Ravus-- was one of those Galra, then. One who believed themselves divinely anointed. They always tried to undermine Friv and order others about. Ravus’ stint wouldn’t last long, she decided, though she hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him.

The other was a beautiful, tall woman. She looked older than the average devotee, but then that meant experience. Lilya watched the woman, Eya, adjusted her braids as she spoke about a deep love of the stars. “The Voice came from them,” Eya said. “How could I do anything but love Her?”

Lilya understood that. She’d come to the Voice through a love of song. She angled her head so that her eyes met Eya’s. Sudden shyness struck her half-way through the gaze and she looked away. Her fur covered her flush.

The others were typical-- a variety of ranks, skill levels, and backgrounds. One was a Tuvani from the colonies; another, from the ash wastes of Gal. A few other devotees sent sidelong glances at the ashwaster, as though she was going to rob them blind when they weren’t looking. When the introductions ended, Lilya watched the ashwaster retreat to isolation. She didn’t care to follow them.

“There were Clarion aboard,” Eya told her later that night. “The guards stormed the ship while we were loading on others, like the Tuvani. They took away a pair-- both from the capital.”

Lilya shuddered. “At least they caught them? I’m sorry you were delayed.”

Eya shrugged. “It was a disturbing experience. I had never seen the Clarion outside holos: they’re far from a problem around the Glimmering Coast.”

The Glimmering Coast was a paradise. Lush, along Gal’s warmest ocean, and filled with vacationers and the holiday homes of high-ranking Galra, it was heavily patrolled. The few attacks she’d heard of were in the main cities. “You’re from the rural areas, then?”

Eya nodded. “Close to the Gyga Canyon.”

The Canyon was a geological wonder. Stories said it’d been carved in the age of the Great Heroes, made by a water goddess mourning her dead Galra lover. She’d torn apart the sands and stones and filled the gashes with her tears. Lilya had always wanted to visit, but permits to visit the Glimmering Coast were difficult to obtain. She told Eya that, who nodded.

“It took years for me to gather the documentation necessary to leave. The Coast is beautiful but it is… confining, we shall say.” Eya said nothing more, though Lilya wondered if the barriers to leaving were meant to protect those on the Coast from corruption. By leaving, wasn’t Eya exposing herself to the Clarion and outsiders? It was dangerous to do that, even if you were faithful to the Voice.

The new devotees integrated unevenly. The worst came when Friv was away for other matters. Ravus and Joyn clashed like storms. “We need to be working on our dances,” Joyn said, showing a flicker of self-awareness. Of everyone in the room, he needed the most work.

Ravus shook his head. “Arrangements are more important!” He jabbed a finger at a vase overflowing with vines and flowers. “It’s a mess. Who did this?” His gaze roamed the room, searching for the culprit. No one owned up to it. “If this is the quality Central Command presents, I am concerned.”

Joyn grit his teeth. “While it is far from artful, catering to your pet concerns is not what this order exists for.”

“No,” Ravus said, “what it exists for is the glorification of the Voice and our worship. Do you think any attendee will look at that vase and feel the warmth of the Voice?” He glared at the vase, as though its existence offended him. “Anyone who’s made this does not deserve the privilege of serving on Central Command.”

Lilya eyed the vase. It wasn’t bad, really. It followed the principles of overflowing love and warmth. The sweet flowers were chosen well, if arranged sloppily. She wasn’t sure about the vines, but perhaps the maker came from a different school of thought. Ravus’ scowl kept her from saying anything, though.

Ravus’ gaze travelled the room. “Who did this?” he demanded. “To say that you require remedial lessons would be kind--”

“Leave it be,” Eya said. She hovered over a complex network of candles, all in varying shades of warm colours. She lit them slowly, her free hand making the required symbols at an almost unseemly fast pace. “We have other duties to attend to, besides. Services start in a few hours.”

Ravus shook his head. “More than enough time to sort this out. Who did this?” Nobody replied. Ravus bared his teeth like a wild animal. “Who?”

Someone sighed. “I did,” someone near Eya said. They were a short, dark-furred Galra. A small patch of white fur streaked their temple. “You’ve found the culprit. Will you release us from your tantrum?”

Ravus jerked back. “And you graduated from your apprenticeship with this work?”

The Galra eyed the vase and its arrangement. “It was done in a colony style. I’m from Vra-31.”

“The colony style,” Ravus snapped, “isn’t what Central Command should be entertaining. This is a palace of Gal.”

The Galra stared down Ravus. “It’s a space station. In space.” They ignored Ravus’ hiss. “You don’t have to like my work, but I won’t have my training denigrated. I was chosen to serve here for a reason.”

“Not for long,” Ravus said. “Not when I show the Druids this work.”

Lilya shifted in her seat. Should she get Friv? But the Galra seemed unbothered by the threat. They were small, but when they stepped out from behind Eya, they managed to loom. “Bring it to them, then.” Their soft voice didn’t hide the steel behind their words. “Show them how well you emulate the Voice’s love. But I won’t forget it, Ravus. Nobody else here will either.”

Ravus seemed to realize how many others were watching, silent and judging. His hands darted to his sides, even as he held his head high. “You’re incompetent,” he said, trying to mirror the Galra’s manner. “I won’t forget that either.”

The Galra shrugged, of all things. “Go work out your anger elsewhere. The rest of us have work to do.”

Eya lit the last candle. “Perhaps you’d care to lead the arrangements?” Ravus stared her down. Her eyes were on the Galra. “I’m sure Central Command would enjoy seeing other places’ traditions. The colonies are as Galran as anyone else.”

Lilya knew a mischievous gleam when she saw it. Ravus stormed from the room. Joyn lurked near the edges, as though waiting to see how things would unfold. The Galra wandered over to their vase and began tinkering with the plants. Lilya watched him. She was too nervous to ask their name.

“...You’re the Tuvani, aren’t you?” Eya asked.

The Galra nodded slowly. “Keirin of the Tuvani.”

“For a traditionalist,” Eya said, “your tastes are far from the norm.” His fingers wove a vine around the stem of a Shadebloom. “Or, I assume a traditionalist.”

Keirin made a noncommittal noise. “I found myself drawn to this path. That my ancestors followed it too, well. It only gives it more meaning.” He prodded the Shadebloom to rest higher on a pillow of interwoven vines. “Who wishes to assist me in the arrangements?”

Strangely, Joyn volunteered. She didn’t know whether that was to boost his reputation by continuing to side against Ravus, or a way to express control over how far Keirin’s experiments went. It didn’t matter, though: she joined Eya in folding and tending to blankets. Ravus returned later, half-way through preparations, and took over the candle arrangements.

He was skilled at it. He was, she admitted to herself and only herself, competent. He was well-aware of that, unfortunately. Perhaps that’s what drove him to fight others: any disorganization or failure around him impugned his own reputation. It was a vain attitude, one that conflicted with the Voice and Her order, but he wouldn’t be the first to hold it.

Joyn fussed and hoarded glory, but at least he worked beside Keirin without a fight. When Friv arrived shortly before the service began, everything was arranged. She eyed each display. Occasionally, she reached out and adjusted items. Her approving nod at Ravus’ display made the man glow. When Friv scrutinized the folded cloths, Lilya squirmed. Eya’s steady hand at her back kept her from speaking. “You’re improving,” Friv declared. Her golden eyes were warm.

Her expression turned puzzled when she reached the flower display. “Odd,” she murmured as she stroked a long-stemmed blossom. “Who worked on these?”

Lilya expected squirming and denial. And yet: “I did,” Keirin said, as though there was nothing questionable about his choices. “Joyn helped. It’s a… melding of styles. I’m from Vra-31--”

“I’ve read your file,” Friv said. She brought no scorn to her words. “I know some of the Vrayan style. This is an, ah, innovative presentation.”

Ravus snickered. Keirin gave him a long look, though that didn’t stop Ravus’ smugness. “The Voice’s strength comes from tradition and the changes we Galra face. Joyn helped me in that. I understand if you do not approve, and I am willing to change what I’ve learned.”

Friv pursed her lips. She made a low, rumbling murp-- a verbal shrug. “We will see what the Druids and attendees think.” She plucked a single puffy red flower from around the bottom of a candle set up. “Though this is too light for the composition.” She strode towards the stage, passing by Keirin. She paused at him, and murmured something even Lilya’s ears couldn’t pick up, and then continued. Keirin’s ears flattened at whatever she said.

She watched him for a while, just trying to see if he looked dour or worried. But in the crush of attendees arriving and Druids conducting them, she lost sight of him. There were too many glasses to fill and too many tired attendees to tend to. She covered drowsy officers in warm blankets, those who’d hours before had been commanding armadas and invasions. It was their time to rejoice and recover, and it was her job to help.

A pair of Druids conducted the ceremony-- Volux and Vyfa. Both were powerful speakers, though Vyfa sounded strained. She deferred to Volux during the ceremonies. It was odd. Volux was by far her subordinate. Lilya thought about hunting for gossip after the service, but the thought passed when she and others were called up to dance to the drums.

Keirin was her partner. They mirrored each other-- awkwardly at times, because she’d never danced with him before, but he was basely skilled and paid attention. Together, they danced to the side as the tenders twirled around each other. She bit back a sigh when she saw Ravus work his way to the front.

Nobody warred with Ravus, but she almost wished someone had. Ravus strode around the stage, his arms pinwheeling in sweeping movements; he looked ridiculous, even if he was talented. These were group dances, she wanted to say. Why are you ruining the performance? But people smiled, their teeth glimmering in the low lights of the room, and when the dance ended, Ravus’ chest puffed out and he beamed at those watching.

“Unseemly,” Friv muttered to them as the dancers scooped up flowers and began to wreath the attendees. Ravus ignored Friv; it would be to his detriment, Lilya thought. Friv did not ignore slights. The first sign of her displeasure came in assigned duties: Ravus was forced to clean the candle holders and the fire-cauldrons after the service. The chemicals contained in the candles and the chemical coating left behind in the cauldrons could take hours to remove. Ravus would be hunched over them for hours, his hands spasming in pain as he scrubbed. Thick gloves would protect him from burns, but the smell would stay for days.

Lilya folded and straightened and kept an eye on Keirin as he cleaned the pitchers. It took an hour to clean the room sufficiently: after that, they were sent to tend to the private rooms where the tired coalesced. She managed to find Eya and pull her into the room Lilya was assigned to. Keirin didn’t seem to mind their quiet chatter as they worked. He never smiled, though. It was unsettling, but she supposed not everyone had a pleasant resting face.

Eya dined with her that night. They curled up together in a pile of pillows and blankets. Eya’s tail was heavy on her stomach, but its softness rivalled that of silk. They ate meat stewed in fermented milk. The thick bread used to scoop up the meat and broth was crisp and fresh. Lilya savoured the citrus taste to the meal. Eya preferred to focus on eating the bread. It took two visits to the kitchen for them to finish.

“What do you think of Ravus?” Lilya asked as they dozed beside a flickering candle that smelled sweet and heavy. A pure glass of purple juice sat on their low-sitting table. “What was he like on the ship here?”

“Rude,” Eya said. Lilya wasn’t surprised. “He went from person to person, demanding their qualifications. When he found out I trained at a temple outside the capital, he sneered.”

“What’s his rank?”

“He comes from a family of warriors, unfortunately, so he believes himself far above the rest of us.” Eya sighed. “I almost told him his family must be disappointed in his accomplishments, but then I enjoy temple-tending too much to denigrate it like that.”

“Maybe he wanted to be a Druid.” Eya’s tail tip twitched under her hand. “I met some like that-- those who wished to know the secrets of the Order.” Lilya frowned to herself. “And this is the closest they could get to it.”

“It’s possible,” Eya allowed. “Though I’d hardly mention it to others.”

Lilya nodded sharply. “Of course. Is there any quicker way to earn resentment?”

Ravus contained enough resentment already. Friv’s punishment caused no lasting damage: when Friv was absent, he ordered around others, complained about ‘substandard’ rules and regulations, and sneered at Keirin. “You should pay attention to the proper way to do things,” Ravus told Keirin as he hovered over Keirin’s shoulder. Keirin’s hands didn’t shake as he carefully repainted the backdrop of the dais. Every month, it needed to be redone due to smoke and heat.

Keirin had steady hands. He traced the lines with an unnerving amount of focus and accuracy. Most tenders hated doing the repainting. It was stressful and everyone noticed mistakes. But Keirin watched his brush as it glided over the spotty lines. He spared little for Ravus. “A line,” he said, “is a line. What would you have me do differently?”

Ravus’ lips thinned. His ears flicked back, and Lilya swore his fur puffed out slightly. “You did not pray for guidance from the Voice,” Ravus said, sharp yet quiet. “You are painting with the wrong materials. You have a skillful hand, but what does it matter when the entire painting is cursed from your laziness and incompetence?”

Cursed. Lilya wanted to say something, but the word frightened her. The Voice wouldn’t curse Her own servants, would she? Especially over something so trivial. Lilya looked up to the worn mural. It was traditional in colours-- red and purple-- with blue and white thrown in to outline the figures. The mural was meant to imitate ancient Galran art, from the time of the Great Heroes. Keirin had imitated it well-- better than most. So why did Ravus threaten him with the mention of curses? Those were things whispered in the dark to new initiates.

“The Voice would have struck me down already,” Keirin said wryly. He dipped the tip of his brush in a thick white paint. The old lines were spotty; the new lines were crisp and thick, thicker than usual. “And I’m improving the mural. Thin paint doesn’t last as long.”

“The nectar of the Duskflowers is supposed to be a component--”

“It ages the paint,” Keirin snapped. “It dims the white, makes it age poorly, and is poisonous. I’m very aware that it’s tradition, but traditions are not rules.” The brush strained under Keirin’s grip. “This temple is beautiful. It is grand-- far beyond what I’ve worked in. Is there any temple whose voice is as clear as this one? I know not.” Keirin pulled the brush away from the mural and looked Ravus in the eye.

She couldn’t see Ravus’ expression, but she heard his breathing hitch. Keirin filled the silence, after a moment. “I will honour this place. I will respect it. I have come to this temple for a reason, Ravus. But I will not abandon the traditions I was raised with.”

“Nor shall I,” Ravus murmured. “Never. But we’re here for the same reasons, Keirin, even if our methods are different. It’s why, out of ten thousand temples, we come to this one.”

Keirin smiled, the expression sharp and toothy. “Then we should become friends, shouldn’t we?” His grip on the brush relaxed.

“...If we must,” Ravus said. Lilya squinted at them. After a moment, she shook her head. She had supper with Eya soon, and the squabbles of other tenders was none of her business. She just hoped they discovered civility.

Eya’s tail brushed against her leg and she looked up to see Eya winking at her. Lilya’s thick fur hid her blush, and for that, she was grateful. Now, she reflected, she just needed a dose of courage to ask Eya out to night-time tea. Eya kept smiling, and Lilya leaned in to whisper about gossip. Joyn had tripped during dance practice, after all, and Friv had caught him. Joyn’s face would be immortalized in Lilya’s mind for the rest of her days. Eya would love it-- she’d try to choke down her laugh, and there’d be a sparkle to her eyes that Lilya loved.

Keirin and Ravus were soon forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is on the 27th! We'll be switching back to Keith's point of view. Thank you all for being so patient, and I hope people enjoyed the chapter!


	26. Chapter 26

Duskflower nectar was not, in fact, poisonous. He learned later that it was the stem’s fiber. It wasn’t easily digested by Galra and sometimes caused blockages in addition to its poison. He found that out from Friv. She didn’t seem to mind the changes he’d implemented to the mural’s paint, but she’d eyed him when Ravus primly passed on his excuse.

When Volux later demanded to know why he’d skipped the Duskflower nectar, it was simple. He’d forgot. It was an uneasy admission. He was supposed to be an expert spy, sans training, and here he was, confessing to some pretty damn basic flaws. Volux’s expression, free from the mask in their little private quarters, showed what they thought. Keith almost apologized, but most of him didn’t want to. Instead, he picked up a handful of berries from a glass bowl on Volux’s table, shrugged, and left them there. It was dangerous to stay long anyway. 

Keith spent the fourth day in meditation. He hated it. Temple tenders were forced to meditate in rotation: Friv said it helped renew the bond between the Voice and initiate. Each group had a name, all corresponding to times of day. His rotation was called the Eve group. Blessedly, Ravus was in another. It was him, Eya, the ashwaster, and Joyn.

The pillows and blankets were stored away from the room’s centre. A fire crackled in the room’s middle, and a metal kettle hung above it, its ring looped around a wood construct. From the kettle, the strong smell of tea wafted into the room. For others, it seemed to soothe them; for Keith, it made him hungry. The sweet scent brought forth thoughts of chocolate and cream and cinnamon. Volux had told him never to drink the tea-- it was meant to absorb the bad thoughts of those meditating-- but it was tempting when all he’d had for breakfast was a thin soup. 

The room’s heat didn’t help his drowsiness. He lay on pillows, his eyes closed, as music flowed from the room’s sound system. The reedy voice sang from the throat. He wondered how much it hurt to sing like that. How long did these Galra singers train for? What area did the singers come from? It’d been a shock to listen to at first, but with all his senses being overwhelmed, he found himself drifting. There was too much  _ everything _ .

He’d wondered why they’d just been herded into the room with little else. He’d almost expected a weaker version of the erya to help with the meditation. Instead, his breathing slowed and his mind-- loud and frantic and ever so paranoid since walking aboard that ship as patsies were dragged out-- cleared. The world went blurry as his eyelashes lowered. The red room took on a sooty shade.

The Voice didn’t come to him as a roar. Instead, it purred. A catlike presence circled him, nudging at his limbs as solid warmth. His teeth rattled from the purr, painful and agonizing yet not enough pain to scream. He tensed, his muscles contracting painfully. A whimper broke free.  _ Like people, like God _ , he thought. Why would the Voice be anything but cruel?

The Voice pulled his heartstrings like a harpist. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His racing heart ached, and he wondered, distantly, if the Voice would pry his soul from his flesh and cast it into her realm. But he was already there, wasn’t he? This room-- this temple-- belonged to her.

The Voice’s presence grew. It became heavier and darker. Shadows smothered him, and he struggled to remember a world beyond the meditation room. The reedy singing from the speakers warped and wobbled as it struggled to break through the cocoon of shadow over his senses. Its tenor changed; the words fell apart, rotten, leaving only a thready whisper.

“You’re mine,” the voice said. “You were always mine. From before, from now, from ever after--” He tried to speak. All that came out was another whimper. The voice crooned at him, like a mother to her squalling child. “Your mother’s mother. Your father’s father. They were mine. It is in your blood and bone. What are you without me? What words would you speak?” The flooring around him dipped, as though weighed down by the Voice’s presence. “Sing my song and see the stars for what they are.”

When he opened his eyes, the other initiates were looking down at him. “Is he okay?” the ashwaster whispered. “Should I get Master Friv?” The ashwaster had a name, he thought. Did he want to be like the other Galra and treat her like she was invisible until convenient? He licked his dry lips with his dryer tongue. “Keirin?” Qore asked.

That had to be her name. He wasn’t sure where it’d come from, he told himself. In his mind, the Voice whispered her name again and again and again and again--

“Keirin!” Joyn barked out. Keith flinched back. “He lost himself to Her. He’ll need Duskflower tea.” Joyn shook his head. “Friv shouldn’t have let him meditate here! We don’t know about the  _ standards _ in the colonies, and the Voice is so much more powerful at this temple.”

I’m fine, he wanted to say. He could stand up. He tried to move his right leg, but agony lanced through it. He wanted to pass out. The Voice denied him that: it kept whispering, though its words turned fainter and fainter. The faintness turned the words to a soft tickle. He wanted to scratch it out from beneath his skin. 

“Grab his hands!” Qore snapped. Something wet gushed down his side, sticky and thick. The scent of iron and copper turned his stomach. “Keirin, calm down. She’s gone-- She’s  **gone** .”

He heard heavy, ragged breathing. It grated like sandpaper. He wanted to stop it too, but he didn’t know where it was coming from. It was louder than his straining heart beat. He stared up into darkness; it hung over him like a stormcloud, blocking from view anything but the lightning that flashed over his vision. They were pictures of things-- things far away., in time and distance. A pair of gold eyes-- darker than the other Galras’, like burnished gold-- cut through him. The eyes were dimming, he realized; their darkness was their owner slowly dying. The whispering tickle beneath his skin surged.  _ Mine _ , the Voice whispered.

The storm cloud swallowed the world. 

But he woke to white. He gagged on the sterile smell that burned his nostrils. HIs eyes watered, though why, he couldn’t tell. “Breathe through your mouth,” came a terse command. It took him a moment to recognize the voice. Volux. “You’ve been out for hours-- thankfully not days.” Volux leaned over him, casting a shadow that Keith’s eyes could tolerate. 

“Glad I’m not dead,” he said hoarsely. “That was--” What? Alarming? Terrifying? Deeply concerning? “...She just took me.” He looked up at Volux through tears. “Is that-- is that normal for the first meditation?”

“No,” Volux said as they leaned over to examine machines nearby. “If it was, I’d never have let you go undercover.” As though Volux could stop him, Keith reflected. Though he might have listened, in the end. “You deeply alarmed the others. You were clawing yourself by the time you passed out.” They motioned at the clean white bandages covering his chest and right thigh. “I would have used quintessence, but there would be questions from the other tenders if I did.”

Keith tried to absorb Volux’s words, yet all he could think of was those dying eyes. Who did they belong to? Were they his? Hyladra’s? He shuddered at that thought. There’d been a soul-deep misery to the eyes. Was the person saved in the end, or did the last few lights go out?

“Why?” he asked. Volux’s mask revealed nothing. “Is it because of the erya? Or the amount of quintessence used to keep me alive?”

“Both, in all likelihood.” Volux drew up a metal seat and perched on it like a bird. “The Voice’s connection to you is strong, Paladin.” They shook their head. “It is not unexpected that She might feel a need deepen your bonds or speak to you. Do you remember what you saw? Or if the Voice said anything?”

“A lot,” Keith said, “about the same thing.” His mother’s mother and his father’s father. They’d belonged to the Voice, at least at the Voice’s insistence. Whether it was true was another thing. He didn’t even know if the Voice had a concept of truth and deception. Its inhumanity had been shown before. That it had words this time meant nothing. He could have projected stuff onto it. “I’m hers, if that means anything.”

“You did attend services,” Volux murmured, though their head turned away, back to the machines. 

Keith shook his head and regretted it instantly. The world sloshed around like water in a bottle. He shut his eyes and buried the back of his head into the pillow. Even with his eyes closed, the world turned. “It was a sham.” He breathed deeply, hoping it’d stop the spinning. “She has to know that.”

“Perhaps.” Volux tapped at a machine and it buzzed. “But She might not care. You offered; she accepted.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

Volux made a noncommittal noise. “I doubt She cares what you think.” Keith grimaced, and Volux laughed. “Your pain is that of many.” Volux didn’t elaborate on that. “You’ll be kept from the meditation room. It will be explained that your bond with the Voice is far beyond most initiates’: there are stories of temple tenders who were loved by the Voice far more than others. While this has… risks concerning the Clarion, a risk is better than a certainty.”

Keith wondered what the Clarion would make of it. A new recruit who could connect with the Voice on a level few could, outside of the Druids… it’d bring more news than it should. Would Ravus contact higher ups on Gal? Was Thace monitoring communications, modifying them so that Keith’s identity could go unquestioned? 

They were on shaky ground already. Zarkon’s forces had captured a cell back on Gal: they were small, but their connections strong. They were stationed near the ashwastes, far from the capital. Right now, a quartet of agents were covering for the Clarion cell’s disappearance. They’d also filed Keith’s information for the transfer to Central Command. That Keith had dug out the passcode for the Central Command cells was even better. He’d unlocked the code that went unsaid outside of whispers in the shadows.

“So they might try to use me to talk to the Voice-- to open up that path that they claim you guys are hiding. The Druids.” Keith’s heart sunk. “Is it even safe for me to go back?” He’d signed up for this, though. If he backed out-- vanished-- the operation would fail, and there were hardly a lot of Galra whose appearances and life story could be fabricated without a trace being left behind. It’d never been safe in the first place anyway. The thoughts tasted sour. “Forget it. How long until I go back?”

Volux stared at him. “I applaud your determination, but there are rightful concerns to attend to. If the Clarion ask you to use an erya-- which Adran mentioned that they use for recruits-- you may be dragged into the Voice again.”

“Then they’ll be thrilled.” Would it show him the fate of the eyes? “Or do you think they could figure out what I’m doing from the attack?”

Volux’s shoulders straightened. “Not an attack. A particularly enthusiastic welcome. You say She told you that you belonged to Her. Why would She hurt you?” Volux’s posture was uneasy, though. Like they weren’t sure of their own words. “But I worry what you may say while stunned from the Voice’s presence. I worry that they may go in after you, believing that the Voice infusing you is a novel way to understand the Voice.”

“Great.” Keith scratched at his cheek with his IV-free hand. He nodded at the hand with the needle. “Let’s get this over with.” Volux didn’t move, though, as though they were reluctant to let him go. It didn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Volux, this is necessary. The faster I get back, the faster this is over.”

“And the faster you might die.”

Keith’s mouth fell open. “Uh--”

Volux shook their head. “This is not simple, Paladin. This isn’t doing daring maneuvers in a ship, or sparring against a larger opponent. The Voice touches the soul. If something were to happen while She was communing with you, you will be lost to the Chorus’ din forever.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Keith watched Volux’s mask, hoping for some sign from their glowing eyes.

Nothing came. “Wrin isn’t worth the risk. Your worth in your role and in your personality fars exceeds Wrin’s. He made his choice when he colluded with the Clarion.” Volux reached down, though, and gently removed the IV. Keith tried not to shudder too much at the sensation of the long, flexible needle sliding free from his veins. “You owe him nothing, Paladin.”

“I know,” Keith said. “I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing it because, if I ever escape, if I ever manage to defeat Zarkon, I can’t have the Clarion replace him. I’ve seen what they do. And I owe something to you guys.” 

“You guys?” Volux echoed. “We’re your captors, Paladin. We are part of the web binding you to the Galra.”

“Part,” Keith acknowledged. “But I can’t return in this form anyway. They might not even believe it’s me, and I can’t leave without the Red Lion.”

“That doesn’t explain why you feel like you owe us.” Volux busied their hands with the bloody IV needle, but Keith thought he sensed  _ nerves _ from the motions. “I am in no mood to flagellate myself, but I would hardly call the pair of us friends, let alone one another’s moons.”

Keith blinked. Moons? He wanted to ask, but the conversation flowed elsewhere. “You saved my life. You’ve told me things nobody else would. We may not be ‘moons’, but you’re a target for them.” And finding the Clarion would bring him closer to Zarkon. It’d earn the man’s trust in a way nothing else could.

With that trust, he might get closer to the Red Lion. It might even get him the Holts. 

“And Wrin and Thace? How do they fit into this strange debt?” Volux wasn’t skilled enough to hide their disdain at the names.

Keith took his time responding. “Thace has been… accepting.” Especially, he thought, for an officer. “Welcoming. You know what he did at my birthday party.” It sounded juvenile, and he tried not to cringe. “Wrin is not the point. He’s extra to it.”

Volux laughed, rough and sharp. “He tends to be.” How did Volux know Thace? Or Wrin? He’d never got an answer to that, and none of the three were eager to provide it. “So you think of this as a self-serving debt. You’ll save us all from ourselves, and progress your goals. What of yourself, Paladin? You have so much concern for your enemies that you spare none for yourself.” Yet Volux pressed a pad of gauze to the IV wound. Their bare hands touched.

From Hyladra, it would have been comforting. From Thace, it’d have been tolerable. Yet from Volux-- for all he owed his life to the Druid-- it felt unnatural. Volux didn’t touch people unless they had to. Sometimes Keith wondered if they were even allowed to form bonds. Volux had Thace and, maybe, Keith.

_ You have so much concern for your enemies that you spare none for yourself _ . He didn’t think the words were true. A healthy fear of death and a desire to return to Shiro kept him from the worst mistakes. His drive to do what was necessary came from the knowledge that the Clarion would be no better than Zarkon. They wanted the Voice unfiltered, and thus uncontrolled. Their racism was less practical than Zarkon’s, he suspected. Zarkon had never struck him as a fanatic, even if Keith wouldn’t claim to know the man’s personal politics.

Outside of ‘the Empire is good’, ‘Zarkon is always right’, and ‘the Voice is to be respected’.

His head ached. What excuse would he feed Volux? The Galra would never truly buy it, though. They didn’t believe his other reasons, and Keith had little else to give them. “I have people to go back to, Volux. A home.” No parents, no family, and a little shack to return to. But if Shiro was there, it’d be worth it. “And I’d prefer not to have to live with the Voice for the rest of-- what? Eternity?”

Volux shrugged. “Forever is what I was taught, but nobody knows for sure. It’s hardly like people return from the Chorus’ ocean.”

“Comforting,” Keith muttered. “I have reasons for doing what I do, though. It’s not half-cocked or a death wish.” At least he hoped it wasn’t. The soft pressure on his needle mark lifted. The gauze was stained a brilliant emerald. For the first time, he didn’t shudder at the sight of his own blood. He didn’t know what to make of that.

“I apologize for misjudging, then.” Volux didn’t sound one bit sorry. “I confused your noble march towards danger as the eagerness of the fool to charge into the maw of death--”

“Don’t get romantic about your sarcasm,” Keith said. Volux snorted. “Do you have anything for the wound? I’m guessing you guys don’t use bandaids.”

Volux stared at him, even as they reached over for a tube of some mysterious liquid. “What,” they said, “is a  _ bandaid _ ?”

The word was sandpaper against his ears. He flinched back. That was English, he realized; Galran had no translation of bandaid, which made sense. Bandaid was a product name. What was the general name for it? What other limitations were there inherent in the strange system of translation? His brow furrowed. “Uh. Gauze that’s sticky? And has a waterproof backing.”

Volux seemed to understand that. “We don’t use those, yes. Even for the barest among us, we have short downy fur, similar to the Emperor’s.” They took hold of Keith’s hand and lifted it. The cap popped off, revealing a clear gel. Volux dabbed it against the wound as it oozed blood. They nodded, satisfied, and began to clear away the tools.

Keith wanted to ask questions. There was so much he didn’t know, and most of it was stuff he hadn’t even realized he didn’t know yet. The frustration of uselessness pushed him to his feet. His head spun a bit, and Volux jerked forward, ready to steady him. “I’m fine,” Keith said, even as the room spun. “I need to get back to the temple.”

Volux said nothing. Keith’s clothes were laid out, folded neatly on a chair, and as Keith had lost whatever sense of shame he’d possessed years ago in the orphanage, he stripped to his undergarments and dressed in temple-tender robes. He still wasn’t used to the cloth’s feel, but he ignored it in favour of slipping on his shoes. By the time he finished, the gel had dried. A thin layer of dried gel trapped the blood beneath his skin. The fur around it shined. It wasn’t sticky, at least. He rubbed at it as he walked to the door.

“Paladin.” It was the first thing Volux had said in several minutes. Keith glanced over his shoulder to see Volux’s face, bare and blank. “I can’t protect you if you go back. My presence will be noticed, far more than before. You’re not an average recruit any more.”

“I’ll be fine--”

Volux stood. Keith’s mouth clicked closed. “You’ve seen glimpses. Paladin.  _ Keith _ . I ask this for your own sake. Walk away from this. Otherwise, you will come back shattered.”

It wasn’t that bad, he wanted to say. But earlier, he’d admitted that the Clarion were no better than Zarkon, even possibly worse. Keith was afraid of the Voice and her powers. Her grasp seemed to clench tighter and tighter each time they collided. Their options were limited, though. Keith suspected it was this or a purging, and he remembered the fear others had of the concept. He wouldn’t let that happen.

“Then I’ll put myself back together again,” he said. He’d done it before, when Shiro had vanished. He’d done it every time a family returned him to the same orphanage, shame in their faces. This wouldn’t be any different.

Volux said no more as he left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on the 8th!
> 
> If you want to keep up with how the chapter's coming, or if there are delays, find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com. <3


	27. Chapter 27

His eyes were gold. He examined them in the reflective metal. Their strong shine hid any hint of weakness or misery, as they always did. Whatever Keith thought he saw in them and in others, it was a projection, a suspicion that he always built from. To their core, Galran eyes hid the soul. If he were a superstitious man, he may have said the Galra had none. But he knew better. He felt Hyladra’s presence in the back of his mind, a low hum of contentment ruined by moments of worry and panic.

Worry and panic over him. Tendrils of her thoughts tugged at the edge of his mind. Their finest, thinnest tips slipped in.  _ What happened _ , she asked;  _ how are you? Where are you going? Who was with you? _

She likely didn’t even mean to ask. The bond was porous, in its own way. Hiding thoughts and feelings was like cupping water in hands. Little pools may stay, but the rest fell to the ground, open for all to see. He breathed as he walked, stress weighing him down like stone.  _ I’m fine _ , he tried to send back. The quintessence inside him left… low. Not that he knew enough to judge. All he knew was that his limbs ached, his mind floated, and his sense of direction seemed to have died a swift death on the medical table. He passed characters he could read but not understand.

The small letters comprised words he didn’t know; the words whose letters he knew formed sentences he couldn’t read. In his mind’s eye, he tried to project the door’s symbol. What is this, he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know if she heard his poorly formed words. He barely heard it himself.

Silence met his question. Then came a flurry of emotion: excitement, which he’d felt constantly as he trained for the mission; a sharp, querulous concern, and then an answer.  _ Laundry room _ , Hyladra said. Keith shook his head, smiling slightly. Of course it’d be that. Other emotions-- all Hyladra’s-- pressed against the barrier of his mind. Her own mind, conscious and embarrassed, plucked at them, pulling each back one by one.

_ It’s okay _ , he told her. Was it true? Not really. But he stuffed away any apprehension he felt. She didn’t need to see it. Yet something gentle wrapped around the apprehension, and he sighed.  _ I’m okay. _ His mind translated Hyladra’s returning feelings as a not-so-gentle snort.

He ignored it in favour of wandering the halls. A vague sense of Central Command’s design kept him from leaving the temple’s section, but he didn’t know enough to find it directly. Maps were scarce-- presumably because it was so close to the medical department. What Druid would need a map to tell them where to go? And anyone discharged officially would likely have help leaving.

His ears spun and flicked, hunting for the sound of people speaking. They picked up nothing, though, and he wished he had the ability to control them. Other Galra didn’t seem to have this problem, he thought. They probably worked it out in childhood. How weird and open did he seem to the others, then? Did they notice his odd expressions or inability to hide things? Or was he passing through the temple unnoticed?

Not that it mattered anymore. His bond with the Voice had ended his stealth. When he walked back into the temple, he’d be more than the Tuvani kid. He’d be Keirin, the strange Tuvani who the Voice knew. Keith tried not to shudder. Every Clarion on Central Command would know that soon. He’d gone from a minor recruit to the latest news.

 

Ravus would want to talk. Their casual exchange of passwords hadn’t changed Ravus’ behaviour much. He still scorned anyone in their way. He still sneered at Keith’s work and tried to take up the spotlight. But for the two days they’d known each other as Clarions, Keith caught Ravus staring here and there. In a few cases, he’d dragged Keith into a discussion of orthodoxy, as though Keith would give anything other than boilerplate answers. Keith assumed Ravus wanted to test Keith’s ability to keep his mouth shut. But now, Keith was special and Ravus would never take that well. It didn’t matter that Keith otherwise played the role of secret terrorist well. He threatened Ravus’ status.

The thoughts worsened his worry. He tried to distract himself as he walked.  _ What does ‘moon’ mean? _

Hyladra cradled his worry. It drained from his body, as though she’d physically taken i from his mind. Which he hoped she hadn’t. His thoughts were his own, and Hyladra didn’t need more worry. A flash of three moons-- larger than earth’s, and all a harvest moon’s orange-- entered his mind. Galran contained no question marks, but his mind translated the Galran equivalent into a single solitary  **_?_ **

_ Moon _ , he thought again. He didn’t know what to put with it. In the absence of conscious thought, a faceless mass of people were sent to Hyladra. It was about as well as he could have done, he figured. 

**_!_ ** said Hyladra. A picture of an unnamed man flickered through his mind.  _ Mine _ , Hyladra’s subconscious said.  _ My moon _ . 

But it didn’t seem right.  _ I would hardly call the pair of us friends, let alone one another’s moons  _ was what Volux had said. But moon being romantic felt strange. Volux didn’t seem the type to think of romance, and he doubted they’d have mentioned it in relation to friendship, or even as an option for their relationship. Whatever their relationship was. Keith thought it was ‘tentatively friends’. He didn’t know what Volux thought.

He sent along curiosity and warmth and tried to hold his own misery close to his chest. “Who is that,” he whispered, as though it’d help form his feelings. He liked to think he sent back a  **_?_ **

Things got fuzzy in translation. He waited and walked as Hyladra puzzled out what he meant. But in the end, it wasn’t confusion that came back: images of scenes and waves of emotion trickled in. The man was a childhood friend, someone close and trusted. He saw her crying, and he saw the man beside her, his fingers carding through her fur. Love as warm as the sun’s rays infused his mind. It was unconditional. It was intimate. There may have been romance there, but it was just as gentle as the other emotions. It wasn’t vital. The person was vital: that man was vital.

Who was he? There wasn’t jealousy to the thought. Keith’s interest in people romantically was largely minute. There were passing fancies that lasted a week or two. As a child, his crushes had been few and far between. It’d confused him by times. Everyone else loved and loved deeply, even in high school. But Keith watched from afar, detached from the fury of emotions that seemed to fuel the school. He’d thought, before the Garrison, that it’d change as he aged. But it hadn’t. He’d entered the Garrison and looked around and saw a cold reality absent of the fiery halo of romance.

Did he prefer it that way? Sometimes. It was less messy, even if he sometimes felt like a stranger looking in on the world around him. The moments where he felt attraction were uncomfortable. He’d look at someone and realize that they were more than attractive. At some point, the theoretical acknowledgement had turned into something deeper. He’d fret over what that meant for him. Was he in love? Should he say something? Yet the next week, he’d look at them and feel nothing. They may have been nice people. Maybe they were charming. It didn’t matter. The fire in his gut had gone out, and people noticed. It was the worst thing about it all, when people noticed.

Some people called him Mr. Robot. By some people, he meant Lance. At some point, the other pilot had noticed his strange expressions and discomfort around certain people. “You look like your programming hit a snag,” Lance told him once as Keith tried to restraint his pained look at an instructor. “Should I call in someone in computer science?”

Keith had ignored him. It’d struck him before that-- while the rest of him seemed fuelled by barely tamped down emotion-- romance flustered him. Maybe if he’d felt it more than a couple times in his life, he’d know how to deal with it better. 

Whether the feeling Hyladra radiated was truly romantic, who knew? But he knew the emotions were positive and warm. So he embraced them, basked in them, and sent whatever warmth he had back to her. Then he took the feelings and tried to compare them to his own.

What was a moon? There was friendship, like what he felt towards Hyladra. Faith, like he had in Allura’s vision. Trust like he had in the Red Lion. And then there was the yearning, desperate need for the person’s presence, like they were the air in your lungs or the blood in your veins.

Like how he felt around Shiro. Not that he was of a mind to admit that to the man. They were friends, no matter what emotion that lingering ember in his heart fuelled. Maybe, he thought, that was what a moon was: someone whose presence you craved, whose opinion you valued, and whose absence would do more than break the heart. It was friendship yet more than friendship. It was romance without the heat. It was the cold, constant presence of the moon, without which the world would no longer be the same.

_ Yes _ , said Hyladra. Did she feel the emotions? Had she seen an image of Shiro? He hoped not. No matter how much he loved her, he needed some sense of privacy. As he walked, other images floated into his mind. They were translations of the signs around him. He followed her guidance as her mind hummed against his. 

The warmth died as he entered the temple. He knew it from the heavy hangings that began to appear, covered in geometric designs that he couldn’t understand. Flowers fought waves of water, while animals from strange lands grew into withered trees. He’d given up on understanding it weeks ago. Thace had sat him down for a lesson on it, but there was too much to it all. So much history, culture, and old myths behind it that he had to understand before the tapestries began to make sense. 

Hyladra receded as he entered the temple, as though she felt she had no place there. From what Keith remembered of his lessons, there were rules about interacting with temple tenders in said temples. There were rules and superstitions. Touching a temple-tender during a performance could transfer the spirits of the Voice they were channelling into the worshipper. Whether the spirit was good was another matter: Thace had told him a story about an evil spirit that drove others to kill. 

“That sounds like a bad horror movie,” Keith had said at the time.

Thace hadn’t smiled. “In a world of quintessence, Druids, and the Voice, I can believe it’s happened. Can’t you?”

It’d scared him for Thace to say that. When he was performing, was he channelling anything? He hadn’t felt spirits or the Voice, but then he was a fraud by necessity. Asking the other tenders was out of the question. Volux would have been a good option, but they weren’t about to talk after their little awkward discussion. So he’d keep it to himself for now.

Nobody was around when he walked in. They were sequestered away for relaxation. Keith didn’t know the time, but that didn’t matter. They always rested in side rooms. He hoped they had food. Whatever he’d been sustained on while unconscious-- and how long he’d been out for-- his stomach seemed keenly aware of a lack of solid food.

It was a normal feeling. Everyone felt hungry at some point. But what left Keith uneasy was that he craved certain Galran foods. He wasn’t aching for a burger or couscous or even something simple like dumplings: he wanted the dark char on a  _ rehi _ , a Galran fish that was creamy and smooth. He wanted a bed of starchy, rich roots harvested near the capital. A freshly squeezed glass of this plant called  _ pyl _ . It was, from what he’d seen from the cafeteria workers making it, an oblong fruit similar to eggplant in shape, though smaller. It was a calming dark blue, a rare colour around the Galra. Its outer skin was thick, requiring a sharp knife and force to open. The thin skin wrapped around a strange nutty casing. It took a quick slam from a hammer to crack open, though it didn’t seem as bad as a coconut.

Inside the nutty casing was the meat of the fruit. Silky and cool, it had a citrus tang with the earthy sweetness of taro. The Galra tended to puree it into smoothies or turn it into juice. Keith had discovered he didn’t care which form it came in so long as it was in a glass. “Most Galra hate  _ pyl _ ,” Hyladra told him one night when it was off the menu and Keith’s eyes kept straying to the drinks menu, as though it’d magically appear. “It hurts to eat.”

Keith had looked her in the eyes. It wasn’t unexpected that the Galra might taste things differently, but-- “It tastes good. And humans like stuff like that.” People ate sour candy so awful they’d cry. A bit of a bite to his fruit was fine to Keith.

He wondered now if he’d still feel the same. His palate had become more Galra with his physical change, which wasn’t unexpected. The re-evaluations he did on the dishes he’d been served during his seclusion had been a trial. Things that’d tasted too sour before were perfectly rich. What had tasted just sweet enough before was almost overpowering. What he suspected-- that the citrus was too sharp for most Galra, maybe even stinging their tongues-- made him think he’d have different feelings on  _ pyl _ now. He hoped they wouldn’t be drastically different.  _ Pyl  _ tasted so good as a human.

“Keirin!” Qore called out as he opened the door. She sat away from the others, though he doubted it was by choice. A large square tin with a deep bottom, packed with stew, took up the room’s middle table which hung low. Galra waited around it, each of them holding their clay bowls. Breads, pitchers, and sweetened meats as dessert were scattered throughout the room.

Catering had gone all out. For what occasion, he didn’t know. Qore’s usual robes had been replaced by something thinner and lighter. It had to be from the ashwastes’ temples. She looked comfortable in it, more than in the usual set. She offered him a bowl and smirked. 

Keith decided to ignore his confusion. Whatever game she played, he didn’t want any part in it. He thanked her and moved towards the stew. The dozen pairs of eyes on him unnerved him, though. He ladled a scoop of stew into his bowl. It smelled of strange, bright herbs and he caught a whiff of sourness emanating from the sauce. Flatbreads with varying types of herbs infused into them waited around the main stew bowl.

Eya and Lilya were huddled together, sharing a long piece of flatbread. Joyn perched beside the main bowl, while Ravus monopolized two pitchers of some mysterious green liquid that looked a little bit too close to Galra blood to be appetizing. Keith found himself reluctant to be near any of them. Instead, he drifted toward Qore.

Her small table had a single pitcher but a pair of flatbreads as large as his torso. “Do you have an open seat?” he asked, even as he looked right at the pillows on the side opposite from Qore.

Her smile made him think of jackals. “For you? Always.”

It wasn’t flirtation. There was something a little too sharp and hungry to it to be. But he took a seat opposite her, aware that people still watched. He broke off a piece of a bread and dove into his stew. It had a bite to it that would have been off-putting as a human. As a Galra, it tingled against his tongue. The crunchy, thin bread had a gooey interior, almost like naan. Almost, except for the bundles of reedy, unchopped herbs inside it. His sharp teeth were quick to break them. What purpose the plants served, he didn’t know. “I don’t think we’ve talked much.” 

Qore ignored the not-so-subtle reprimand. She smiled at him, though her eyes kept flicking over to look at the others in the room. Those nearest were suspiciously quiet, as though they were waiting for gossip. Likely, he knew, about him and what’d happened during meditation. 

“You were gone less than I thought you’d be.” Qore scrutinized him. Her cat nose crinkled as she did. If it’d be on someone less slinky and unsettling, he’d have thought it cute. “The Druids would care for one of their own, though, would they not?”

Keith blinked. “One of their own?” 

“That’s what you are,” Qore said happily. She ripped another piece of bread off and used a claw to pick out the herbs. Each sprig was deposited into the soup. “Every Druid has a bond like yours to the Voice. Of course, theirs are much stronger. They come out of the womb touched by the Voice, and She allows the order to find them.”

“How do you know that? Ravus demanded, sharp as a blade. “Temple-tenders can have bonds. We all do here. Are you saying that we could have all been Druids?”

Qore eyed Ravus, as though he was an unpleasant insect that’d crawled into her bedding. “No. There is variance. For example, there is Keirin. Then there is you.” Eya stifled a laugh. Ravus’ expression turned ugly, but Qore didn’t seem to care. “At my temple, the Druids were far closer to us. It was a necessity in the Ashwastes.” She didn’t elaborate on why. Judging by the confused looks on several others-- Lilya and Joyn most prominent-- Keith wasn’t the only one confused. “A Druid is a being with a strong connection to the Voice. They can manipulate quintessence due to their bond with Her. All have this ability. But those who are temple-tenders have differing capabilities. One can be like Ravus who, at best, can channel the quintessence that the Druids conjure. They can manipulate it via their dancing, to charm and relax supplicants. Or one can be like Keirin: weaker than a Druid, as he’s a temple-tender, but able to manipulate the foundation of quintessence due to the Voice’s favour.”

Why hadn’t Volux told him this? He’d had no idea the temple-tenders could have abilities with quintessence. Judging by the looks on the others’ faces, they hadn’t either. But Keith relied on knowing more than the others to stay undercover.

But that wasn’t the issue right now. Lilya spoke. “So when the Druids are taken as children--?”

“The Voice leads the order to them, as you know. But their families may also possess abilities with quintessence. It runs in lines, you must understand. Parents who have birthed one Druid may produce more.” Qore’s eyes were sly and smug, as though she was leading them along a finely trimmed garden trail. Keith wondered what the destination was. “In the Ashwastes, we called them Gold-Bleeders. Their lines would die out as their children were taken away to be swathed in robes and weave threads of gold for the Voice and Emperor.”

Keith wasn’t a Galra, though. He wore the form of one, sure, but his bloodline brought him to Earth. What the Voice’s touch meant was that she was curious about the strange lifeform that’d reached out to her, or she was determined to investigate his connection to the Lions. As the temple tenders’ eyes picked him apart, he knew they were looking at a lie by omission. To an outsider, he looked blessed, like he was a step from being a Druid. To the others-- Volux, Thace, Hyladra, and the others-- he was a man of misfortune. If it hadn’t been for the Lion, he’d have been an ordinary human.

Maybe that’s why Volux hadn’t told him. These were secrets the temple tenders largely didn’t know, and Keith wasn’t even a true Galra. Even more, there’d been no way to know if it’d come up: Volux had seemed discomforted by what had happened, even doing their version of begging him not to return.

“I was told,” Eya said, her voice steady and low, “that the Druids were chosen by the stars.” She didn’t sound betrayed or upset. Her curiosity leaked through into her tone. “I knew they were taken from their families, never to be seen again, and that you could never tell if a child died or joined the order. They were to be washed of mortal bonds and married to the Voice’s love. I didn’t realize there were shades to the Voice’s love.”

Qore shrugged. “Perhaps it is guided by the stars. Or She simply plays a doting parent whose favourite receives more toys at celebrations. Either way, we are here, are we not? That makes us far closer to Her mystery than most others.”

What were the Ashwastes like? People seemed to have loose lips there, if nothing else. They looked different than many Galra as well: their stubby, short fur, almost like those of a Cornish Rex cat, coated leathery looking skin. Qore made him think of Zarkon, and he wondered if that’s where he came from. It’d explain his adversity story quite well. Qore’s nose, though, made him think at least one parent was from… wherever else most of Central Command was from. 

Where there other types of Galra? He’d seen Eya’s tail, which was an interesting feature in how strange it was. Galra were feline in appearance, but Eya had the first tail he’d seen. He thought. Maybe Galra tucked it away into their armor. 

The true misfortune of his situation was that he couldn’t ask anyone about it. He filed it away to ask another time, though hopefully by then the entire mess would be over with. 

His silence had been noticed. Qore reached over and plucked his bread out of his hands. Sauce dripped from it. Its crispness had given way to a soggy glob, and Qore eyed it. “That,” she told him, “is not how you treat vaj.”

Part of Keith wanted to glare at her. Another impulse told him to take his bread back and return to eating. But he remembered what Friv had told him after he’d painted the mural.  _ The tallest weed is cut first. _

So he forced a small smile. “I apologize,” he said, though the words were more sour than the stew.

She didn’t hand it back immediately. From her robe’s left sleeve, her other hand appeared. A two-handed grip returned his vaj, and the feel of paper against his palm startled him. Since he faced Qore, away from the rest of the room, only she saw his wide-eyed expression. When had he last seen or felt paper? It’d been an eternity, all the way back to when he’d lived in the cabin, arranging photos and news clippings. He let the vaj drop into the stew again and pocketed the paper.

Keith dug into his stew again, but Qore had stood, a glass in hand. “A toast!” she said. “To the Emperor.”

Joyn bolted to his feet. He brandished a glass of milky liquid-- the fermented gheron milk that Kymin enjoyed. “To the Emperor!” he declared. He took a long gulp of the glass. His eyes shined purple as he looked over the room, his chest puffed out and his smile sparkling. “May his command stretch to the universe’s edges for all eternity!”

Throughout the room, people echoed his toast. Unlike on Earth, Galra didn’t raise their glasses high. They moved them out, as though offering the glass to those nearby. Keith mimed the movement, and in sync with the others, raised it to his lips after a few seconds of consideration to the invisible person he offered his glass to. 

The meal ended quietly yet pleasantly. The toast soothed Joyn’s boisterousness, and everyone else seemed busy cuddling, as in the case of Lilya and Eya, or absorbing what Qore had said. Keith was grateful when Friv appeared and herded them out. Cleaning the temple soothed his mind. 

If he hadn’t felt the paper in his pocket with every movement, he might have claimed the moment to be the first truly relaxing one he’d had in a long time. He wanted to sidle into a side-room and beg Hyladra to translate the message. What game was Qore playing? He suspected she wanted a meeting, but what would the meeting be about? His connection to the Voice? But she knew more about it than he did.

The thoughts didn’t leave him as the cleaning wound down. It was evening, after service, and there was little else to do. Lilya and Eya paired off to do a sweeping, stately dance, while Qore and the others watched. Ravus sulked in the back as .Lilya and Eya held hands and revolved around each other like planets around stars. Eya’s tail kept beat-- a Galran beat, odd and off-kilter, but charming when surrounded by enthusiastic Galra.

Long and slinky, Eya’s tail raised up like a shepherd’s staff, its tip twitching at shoulder-level. He found himself watching it, almost mesmerized. He’d seen strange alien species before, like the Balmerans or Atrusians, but Galran tails were uniquely foreign. Humans or humanoids with tails were common in art. And here he sat, watching someone’s interpretation of alien life dance together.

When Qore offered him a hand, he took it. She pulled him into a faster dance than Lilya and Eya’s; she wavered like a reed in the wind, interrupting the sinuous dance to hop closer to him. He mirrored the movements. He didn’t know the dance, or perhaps had forgotten it, but he the beat she danced to was a slightly faster version of the girls’ beat.

Keith relied less on the training Volux and Thace had given him and more on martial arts and the bits of dancing he’d picked up over the years. As a younger teen, he’d been infatuated with dancing. Not in public-- he was too awkward for that-- but in private. He watched music videos and mimed the movements. He read books that romanticized the link between fighting and dancing, and it made him feel good, like less of an outcast, to embrace that link. Martial arts gave him control over his body; his studious examination of dance as a teen gave him the rhythm and artistry to direct said control.

Temple dancing was deceptively simple. It focused on repetitive, hypnotizing motions and the occasional burst of energy. The hops were supposed to be a sign of the temple-tender approaching the Voice. Due to Galra physiology, large leaps were considered dangerous. Keith thought otherwise: they were dangerous because most non-combatant Galra hadn’t practiced leaps. Thusly, when they tried, they risked destroying their legs in a bad fall. It was like a human who disdained gymnastics from a fear of injury. Understandable, but a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Either way, when Qore hopped, Keith leapt. It was showing off, he knew, but he feared he’d be much more likely to fall if he did small hops. He’d spent so much time pushing the boundaries of his new form that he’d ignored the smaller things. He’d run before he’d walked.

Qore beamed at him. “You move,” she told him when he was close, “like the sand in wind.” She pressed her nose against his, her paler, almost blue fur soft as goose down. “I wonder if it is the Voice’s will guiding you.”

Keith pulled back, his half-smile frozen in place. “I like to think it’s me,” he said.

Qore smiled fully and warmly. “Don’t we all?”

He left after the dance, though others tried to get him to talk. Joyn wanted a lesson; Ravus seemed to have something nasty to say, but then he always did. Keith didn’t want any of it. Something was wrong with Qore, something strange. It rattled him to the bone, like he was looking into the eyes of something unnatural.

It wasn’t because she came from the Ashwastes. He was sure others were thinking that, ignoring her whispers to him or perhaps thinking they were whispered romance that he spurned. But there was an intensity to her that was familiar. It made him think of Adran. It made him think of Adran. It made him think of Gevin. Her eyes shone with knowledge and certainty that few possessed about anything. She spoke about things nobody else knew. 

And who said, after all, that Ravus was the only Clarion?

The Clarion would see these things as open knowledge, wouldn’t they? But it begged the question of why Qore told others.Maybe it was part of undermining the Druids and establishment. If the Druids were humanized-- Galranized?-- turned into mortals, then they lost their mystique. If temple tenders could have the same powers as Druids, what did they need the Druids as gatekeepers?

He’d helped a potential Clarion further that argument among sheltered temple tenders. What did Joyn think of the news? Or Lilya and Eya? Nothing good, he suspected. Galran culture survived on the basis of tightly controlled information. Qore had seen an opportunity to share what she knew without too much scrutiny and taken it. Maybe that was partly why Volux hadn’t wanted Keith to return to the temple. Maybe they’d known how the Clarion would take advantage of it.

“Fuck,” he breathed to himself. The side room was warm, as everything else was, and he hungered for the cold metal outside. Even the temple’s floors were like hot sand. He curled up against the wall and floor. The warmth was far from comforting as he called out to Hyladra.

Minutes passed in silence. He pulled the little note out of his pocket. It was written in a dark green ink on grey paper that felt strangely coarse. Qore’s writing stretched over the piece of paper, a little too large to be elegant. Her hand was steady, though, and he could read her sentence’s offshoots perfectly. Unfortunately, knowing the letters meant nothing when he didn’t know what the words meant.

Hyladra’s presence tumbled into his without much fanfare. It was like she’d woken up, which she may have at this time of night. Her sleepy mind wrapped around his tense, worried energy. Her exhaustion wasn’t forgotten, but he felt her outstretched question immediately.

He held the note up to his eyes. Its distance wavered at that line between ‘perfect sight’ and ‘too close for the eyes to focus on’. His shaking hands didn’t help.  _ I need to know what this means _ , he thought. He bundled that thought up with curiosity, worry, and a mental image of what he saw on the paper and pushed it through to Hyladra.

It took minutes for her to unpack it all. Her careful curiosity strengthened with each emotion and thought she plucked from the package. Her casual, tired hum comforted Keith. It was okay. They’d figure this out. Qore had won this round, if she was Clarion, but he wouldn’t give her anything more. Same with Ravus. He’d behave, try to blend back into the shadows, and focus on the Clarion. Playing the moody, solitary temple tender would be the best route. Thankfully, playing a moody, solitary anything was his personality.. 

Ice filled his heart. It wasn’t his fear, but Hyladra’s. Panic, terror, and a queasy uneasiness flooded him.  _ No no no no no _ the bond whispered.  _ Not this. Anything but this.  _ Her mind screamed in panic. 

_ What’s wrong? _ he asked.  _ Please, tell me what’s wrong-- _

A wave of panic-tinged refusal crashed over him. But something else came through, tangled and sick. Hyladra had as little control over the bond as him. That seemed to worsen her panic.

He grasped at strands of thought in the barrage. There was death, or a fear of it. Another strand led to an image of Elin, Hyladra’s friend. The last was of the memory of hers he’d lived. It was the bombing of that stadium she’d been in. He heard the warning play through her mind, and the memory of the darkness below the rocks.

_ They want you to kill Elin _ , he read from the panic.  _ They want you to kill Elin to prove you’re true to the cause. _

And by her horror, she thought he’d do it too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is going up on the 20th! Sorry for being late. <3 Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	28. Chapter 28

He choked the horror rising inside him. Maybe it was unnatural, maybe it’d worsen Hyladra’s terror, and maybe he should deal with what she was feeling, but not now. He stared at the piece of paper. He didn’t see Elin’s name in it, but that meant nothing. _What does it say?_ he asked again. His inner voice sounded cold and calm.

It didn’t ground Hyladra. Panic flooded his mind, its voice searing through his senses. His free hand darted up to his temple. He clutched at his head, gasping through the pain. _I’m not_ , he thought. _I’m not going to hurt her. I promise, I swear, Hyladra,_ **_please_ ** _\--_

He didn’t know what got through. Maybe none of it. But the pain built and built and built, looming over his mind. He crumpled in on himself. Riding out the waves of pain left him shaking. His mind was a dying scream, his senses burning, and he wondered if he’d pass out before it ended.

Hyladra scrambled to contain the wave of emotion. He felt her claws dig into his mind, trying to grab back emotions already inside him. Her claws lacerated his mind. He flinched back with each desperate swipe. _Stop_ , he thought. It’s okay. _I’m okay. I’m here._

It didn’t help. She slowed, but that crazed fear inside her flowed into him. His hands shook. Grief flowed through him, colouring his every thought. In desperation, he thought back to the man-- her moon-- and tried to send an image of him to her. It was indistinct. He didn’t know the man. The image had come quick from Hyladra, but he remembered the colours-- the man’s fur, the man’s clothes, even the man’s eyes.

Hyladra’s mind froze. The fear dissipated. The panic died. Hyladra breathed deep. He sent his own warmth to her, hoping she’d take it as the man’s.  A false calm-- a cold wind over a fire-- filled their bond. He could almost hear her chant that she was fine, she was okay, and that nothing bad was going to happen. He’d said it enough to himself.

 _Why Elin_ ? Solid words were hard, almost impossible, to send. Instead, he sent bewilderment and concern layered with love. He cared about Hyladra and Elin. He’d never hurt them. Even if, as a Paladin, he should have been prepared to. _I wouldn’t hurt her_ , he thought. _Never_.

Slight, tentative trust wormed its way into his brain. The image of the note flashed across his mind. He released his grip on his head and displayed the note again. It was crumpled, but Hyladra seemed to still be able to read it.

Her translation came in pieces. A scene of some rite, what had to be initiation. A vision of Elin, but not in any state he’d seen her. She wore fine, thin golden clothes. She sat upon a decorated pillow, servants, and gems. She wasn’t low-ranked, he thought. She was special. Yet beside her sat Hyladra: a Harim, an astrologer whose rank dulled in comparison to others.

She disgraced herself, then, in the eyes of the Clarion. Elin clung to someone far below her rank and lived in Hyladra’s shadow. But the images didn’t stop. His own face-- human and pale-- appeared. Images of Elin looking at him, wide-eyed and enamoured, interrupted the vision of what Elin would have been before Zarkon.

She disgraced herself by her friendship with a Harim and an abomination. Elin’s life depended on Zarkon’s authority: without it, it would be demanded that she ascend to her lofty position and rule. Rule what, though? What was her rank? The feelings and images of their bond wasn’t enough to ask, let alone receive an answer.

His quiet musing died as a vision of death came from Hyladra. Green blood, flecks of torn fur, and dark, empty eyes staring out at him filled his mind. He shuddered. They wanted Elin dead for her betrayals, and they’d thought the best person to do it was a strange little Tuvani who was embraced by the Voice. It was a poor choice, and not just because he was a double agent.

Temple-tenders rarely left their section, barring illness. They had little in the way of fighting capabilities. Most of what Volux and Thace taught him were simple maneuvers meant for pushing people away before fleeing. But then, he thought, Elin had never shown interest in fighting. Another strike against her in the view of the Clarion, but it explained why he’d been assigned her. What did she do, then? He’d never thought to ask. Elin had been a quiet presence. Someone to keep an eye out for and be friendly with, but never someone he’d bare his soul to.

He rubbed at his eyes. The warm pads of his hands were bizarrely soothing. Maybe he associated them with Hyladra’s touch from even before he’d changed into a Galra. It’d make sense, even if it made him feel strange. _I’m not going to hurt her_. He sent an image of Elin somewhere in the far future, alive and with Hyladra. He’d never take her friend away. He could never hurt Elin when she’d done nothing wrong.

It could all be faked. He knew that. Whatever Zarkon’s brutality or-- according to Hyladra, which he wasn’t sure how to feel about-- Keith’s _own_ aggression, it wasn’t necessary to kill Elin. Not when technology and quintessence existed as it did. Hyladra had to realize that on some level.

Maybe, part of him decided, she was afraid that he would take the easy route out. But that wasn’t him. He’d never taken the easy way out. Had he? He’d never thought that of himself. He shoved the moment of insecurity away. There were bigger problems.

Hyladra reached out with skittish warmth. The image of Elin in the future had seemed to comfort her. She offered him an image-- one of Volux. They’d help, she seemed to say, and he agreed. Volux might push a more brutal way of doing things sometimes, but Keith hardly thought they were the type to tell him to murder Elin.

He nodded, as though anyone could see that, let alone Hyladra. That was what he’d do, then. Get in contact with Volux, figure out a plan for the charade, and then dig his hole a little bit deeper. “Fuck,” he whispered, but it lacked the release he’d hoped for. “...Quiznak.”

It felt surprisingly better, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The word made him think of Shiro, Red, and the Castle of Lions. Quiznak came from Altean, and though he knew it was their version of ‘fuck’, it felt worlds gentler. Almost playful. It didn’t have the vehemence of fuck, but it soothed.

He was sure Allura and Coran would have something to say about that. Or maybe that’s how they saw the word ‘fuck’ too: a silly little alien word that might infect their brain like quiznak did.

Another deep breath, and he forced himself to his feet. His legs shook and the world didn’t seem to have a foundation anymore, but he got to his feet. Hyladra hovered in the back of his mind, as though frightened he’d topple over dead. He didn’t have the energy to muster warmth or love, so he sent a vague, weary acknowledgement of her presence. She tried to send love, but it was weak, as though she was still exhausted from what had happened. There was a taste of regret to her warmth. He didn’t need to guess at what: his head still hurt.

He slept in his communal room that night, surrounded by snoring, purring aliens. Galra rooms weren’t segregated by gender, but instead initiate rank. Galran beds, like the one in Thace’s room, were round pillows with cushioned backs held a few feet up from the ground. A thick, velvety canopy helped hide the occupant from view. Galra sometimes curled up in bed together, like Lilya and Eya. Others forsook the beds-- loosely assigned in the first place-- and slept on the pillowed floor.

The only assigned parts of the temple, Keith had found, were duties and dressers in a room opposite the bedrooms. The temple-tenders didn’t seem to mind. In comparison, none of the non-temple tender Galra he’d met had sounded-- or felt-- enthusiastic about such close living quarters.

It made him think of cults. He knew bits and pieces about them, how they’d shower initiates with love, give them no time for self-reflection, and cut them off from the outside world. He certainly felt trapped in the temple. The other Galra-- barring the Clarion plants-- cuddled and preened and chattered like birds. The only time he had to think was when he slept. Even when he’d left to look at the note, someone had come after him minutes later. Joyn, in this case, whose brow was furrowed and his ears flattened. “We were worried,” Joyn had said. “You left so suddenly!”

He wished he’d had another minute to breathe. He’d been leaving the room, sure, but a walk down the oppressively hot halls would have been a balm to his soul. In the bedroom, he curled up on the bed and prayed for a moment of silence.

Hyladra soothed him. She dozed far away, in another section of the station, and her dreams tugged at his mind. The dreams were vague colours and sensations that tickled the pads of his hands. He rested his head against a pillow and tried to ignore the feelings. He should sleep. Temple-tenders were allotted a short five hours of sleep during the night, a two hour nap in the afternoon to hide from the heat after services, and then two hours in the evening, after eating. Then they’d return to clean, organize, and develop the worship spaces.

It was an unending grind. There was little time for learning anything beyond how to do the same tasks-- dancing, cleaning, painting, and decorating-- though Keith had more than a few questions about things like theology and history. Some of the older initiates were taken away sometimes, which made him think there were lessons. At some point, at least. Once they were so wrapped up in temple life to no longer question the stranger parts of the entire religion.

He drifted off to the ebb and flow of Hyladra’s murky thoughts. When the light bell tolled, he found himself just as tired as before. He wanted to sleep for the next dozen hours. His head still hurt. His mouth tasted sour, despite the capsules he’d been given to clean his teeth and tongue. He buried his face into a particularly fluffy pillow and sighed into it.

Quiznak, quiznak, quiznak. He wanted out. Yearning for the outer station struck him as a strange irony. It was just a bigger cage with nicer inmates. And yet, here he was, aching for the odd, passing presence of Volux or the cunning smirk that Hyladra wore whenever she sniped at someone or joked. Keith wondered what Thace would say about his situation now. The man’s stoicism comforted Keith in the weirdest ways. Thace was unchanging: whatever the man’s plans which Keith still didn’t understand. Thace’s pinched look haunted the back of his mind whenever he had to make a choice. Foolishness was not appreciated by Thace.

Yet Keith lived a vicious brand of foolishness. He danced with a dozen other temple-tenders, his robes swishing with the bouncing movements. Later, he helped arrange lunch around a cauldron of soup. Then, after he’d finished a single bowl, Friv swept him and several others away to practice art. “A temple-tender’s soul is in their art,” he was told. “By listening to the Voice and visualizing what you’ve seen, you can better understand Her.”

It started regimented. Pictures of nebulas, strange and alien planets, and species that looked far from any species he’d ever seen. “In each of them.” Friv said, “there is quintessence. From quintessence, the Voice thrives.”

They were nice words, he supposed. But the reality was that, the moment she left, the drawings turned from the holy to the mortal. People drew one another, assigned by Joyn. Keith doodled a portrait of the Galra who fluttered between artists. When Joyn saw the portrait, his eyes went wide and his mouth turned to a small ‘o’. For the next hour of practice, Joyn was wrapped around him, chin slotted into the crook of Keith’s arm. Every once in a while, Joyn issued a challenge. Keith opened a new document-- taught the buttons by Hyladra long before his change-- and made an effort. Whenever Joyn asked something he didn’t know, he deflected. What did a gheron really look like? Who knew. Keith didn’t.

More time passed, filled with more tasks. When did Qore expect him to plot? Maybe that was part of the test. Afternoon service ended with someone sick from the incense. Keith hustled them from the main room before they puked. He brought them to a bare, metal bathroom and tended to them between winces. They pressed their cheek against the cool metal and sipped at the flower-infused cold drink he plied them with. “I apologize,” they heaved out as their stomach tried to crawl up their throat.

He pat them on the back. “It’s fine,” he said. Liquid came out of them, and he cringed back. He hoped they hadn’t noticed. “Do you need medical attention?” The incense seemed to have triggered something. Maybe a migraine?

“No,” they snapped. They were a soldier, he supposed, and a Galra one at that. Admitting weakness incense has knocked them on their ass would be disastrous for their reputation. All Keith could do was play nurse and wait.

They were better in an hour. It’d been an hour of boredom, but it gave him an excuse to beg off for rest when he got out. “I wish to meditate,” he said when Friv pressed. “I will be there for evening services, but I dreamed of troubling things.” He didn’t elaborate on what: he prayed his experience with the Voice would fill in the blanks. Make it ominous. Make it deep. Make it seem like anything other than him slinking off to find Volux.

Friv didn’t seem to buy it-- not completely. But several other tenders looked at him with wide-eyes and whispered among each other, and Friv didn’t stop him. He tried to do a weary walk away from the group, but what did that look like? He hunched his shoulders and walked slowly, and hoped that did the job.

Where was Volux? In the time he’d been in the temple, Volux had been attached to the services every time. Not that they’d seemed _pleased_ by it, admittedly. Volux was a sour person by nature, and having to chant and sing and whatever else visibly annoyed them. Even with a mask. But that may have been because Keith knew Volux. Nobody else commented on their impatience or temper. Volux was treated with the reverence every other Druid was.

He walked through the halls while humming and rocking. It was a basic form of meditation-- the sounds were mimicking the sounds that’d allowed the Voice to drag him away from his body. The rocking was mesmerizing-- in the right mind, at least. But there was nothing relaxing about it. It was a tiring show as he peered through open doors while pretending he absolutely wasn’t.

He found Volux in a small office down a tangle of halls. A bare metal desk sat on a bare metal floor, and Volux hunched over the the holostation atop it all. It was far from the religious obsession that plagued the rest of the temple. The room was a drop of reality in a sea of delusion.

The thoughts might have shamed him days ago. While he had issues with… most of the Galra, if he was honest, the temple-tenders were happy and oblivious to the problems outside their world. They didn’t deserve his sour ire. Not that it helped his exhaustion. He knocked on the partly open door. “What?” Volux snapped without looking.

The most pleasant Galra in the universe, barring Zarkon himself. “Master Druid,” Keith said, honey-sweet. Volux stiffened, even without looking at him. “I come for guidance.”

Volux still wore the mask. Their expression was bird-like: their head raised, tilted to the side, and then they reared back. He imagined their face falling into a deep, judging frown. “In,” they ordered. Keith rocked in, exaggerating the movements just to annoy Volux. It seemed to work, going by the bite in their tenor voice. “Close the door and stop playing the penitent.”

“The devout,” Keith corrected after he closed the door.

Volux sniffed, as they tended to do. “You’ve been devout to one thing in your life, Paladin, and that is far, far, far away. Don’t bother with your airs of servitude to the Voice.”

That was harsh, even for Volux. Keith frowned. “Something’s got you in a _mood_.”

“Nothing,” Volux snapped, proving his point. “Why are you here? You’re risking both of us.”

Keith cocked his head to the side. His ears flattened. “One of the Clarion agents want me to kill someone.”

“Take a knife to their back, then--”

“Don’t,” Keith said. Volux froze. “I’m not going to play that game. I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass and died--” and God, he hoped that translated-- “but I’m not killing someone innocent. It’s Elin anyway. A friend.”

“Oh dear,” Volux said, “ _attachments_.”

“You live on being catty.” Keith sighed. Volux shrugged, as though they weren’t too sure what ‘catty’ was. It’d figure that wouldn’t translate. “But I’m not going to murder Elin, and you know that. You also know that you don’t want her hurt either. I don’t know what got you in a mood, but I’m here for solutions. Help me fake her death so we can both get this over with.”

Volux’s fingers pecked at the glass the station projected onto. They didn’t speak for a moment. “Fine,” they said. It was grudgingly and bitter. “Let us scheme. That seems to be what you’ve taken to anymore.”

Keith grit his teeth. “Do you expect me to grovel? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You’ve killed and schemed and helped your own enemies.” Volux glanced at him before they turned back to the station’s screen. It was like they were trying to lure him into something. What, he couldn’t say, but then he could rarely guess Volux’s moods. “What a beacon of goodness! What a saviour of the universe! What a defender of legend!”

“Spare me.” Keith tugged his robes closer. It was cold in the room. “I’m trying to survive this. That’s it. That’s all there is to this.”

“You’ve gone past survival,” Volux said. “You’re helping the Emperor. Does that not taste bitter?”

“Not as bitter as you.” Keith leaned against the door, his arms crossed. “I’m thinking long term. Besides, shouldn’t my help please you? You are a citizen of the Empire, after all. Why are you so angry at what I’m doing?”

Volux stared at the screen. “Perhaps I thought more of you. My apologies.” Keith opened his mouth, about to demand an answer, but Volux continued, and the moment was lost. “I can arrange a public prayer ceremony, outside the temple. The Harim can invite her to the affair, and we can fake her death there. Does that satisfy you?”

He wanted to throttle Volux. Had spurning Volux’s advice really fucked their alliance so much? “Whatever,” he said and immediately rethought it. That was the petulant part of him: it wasn’t what he needed right now. “...Thank you. But this helps you too, Volux. You’d sink with the Empire if the Clarion won.”

“Would I?” Volux pulled away from the station. “You’ve survived in a land of enemies. Do you think I couldn’t do the same?”

Would they want to? There was something strange to their tone that made him uneasy to challenge their confidence. “You might be able to,” he allowed. “Would you want to, though? Most of the people you know would be dead.”

Volux shrugged. “A Druid doesn’t dally in attachments.” They sounded bitter.

“You won’t be a Druid anymore.”

That got Volux to deflate. Keith wondered how isolated Volux was that the prospect of everyone around him dying or leaving him paled in comparison to the threat of no longer being a Druid. Who was Volux? From what the other temple tenders had said, Druids were taken at a young age and brainwashed. They were raised on a diet of the Voice, Zarkon, and their own powers. _Volux_ might not even know who Volux was.

And Keith could feel sympathy for that. His life had been a struggle to figure out where he came from, what he was meant to do, and who he was and wanted to be. The baggage came from being an orphan, which Volux functionally was. What role models did Volux have? Thace? Somehow, the pair struck him as a little too close to equals for that. Their sidelong looks and thorny words were something that came from reluctant friends forced into proximity by circumstance. That was his read of it, anyway. The only ones who knew for certain were Volux and Thace, and he was hardly in the mood to weather Volux’s bile for an answer.

“Elin won’t have to know about me.” It wasn’t a question. Volux seemed to get that: they nodded once, their gaze focused on their gloved hands. “Or what’s going on. She just needs to know that someone wants her dead and she needs to follow directions.”

“Still shy?” Volux said sweetly. “Poor dear.” But they didn’t push: “I shall arrange that, then.” They rolled back in their chair and leaned down to sort through a drawer. They emerged with a small, empty vial. Keith took it when their arm jabbed out, offering it. “Bring this filled with the tea from a meditation session. It will look a reddish purple. Do not drink it. Preferably, do not sniff it. The tea has more than meditative properties.”

Keith’s brows rose. “Are you saying that it’s psychedelic?” He took the vial and pocketed it.

Volux didn’t look at him, though they shrugged. “It’s not for consumption. That is all I’ll say.”

Which meant it was some flavour of psychedelic. That would explain why they used it in the meditation rooms and why it was so effective: it was literally poisoning their brains. With no air circulation, an enclosed space, and the tea’s fumes, their brains would freak out and…

What? Were the visions he’d seen the result of him slowly dying? Was it a psychedelic experience? Or had the Voice reached out to save him? Or worse: he’d reached out to the Voice in fear as he slowly died.

He couldn’t tell anyone. It was an occult secret. Temple-tenders at his rank wouldn’t know, and he couldn’t say if even Friv knew the properties of the tea. It was disturbing to think about. Minutes ago, he’d have gone back into a meditation room and played at meditating. Now, the idea of going into the room filled him with dread.

“And I’m guessing I poison her-- fake poison.” Volux nodded, and Keith sighed. “Okay, then. I serve things at the prayer thing, pretend to dump the vial into her drink, and she fakes death. You help prove the death and then I’m in the clear.” His head hurt, but this was almost over.

“You understand it. Put on a show when she dies, if only for my amusement.”

Keith left them after that. Ideally, they were sardonic companions with different aims: Volux for amusement, and Keith for survival. It seemed they’d moved away from that, though. He wasn’t sure how far or why. _Let us scheme. That seems to be what you’ve taken to anymore_. The desire to go snap at Volux some more tempted him, but there were bigger concerns.

The bigger picture was all he could think about at this point. He didn’t think it a good thing.

A few tenders checked on him. He claimed simple tiredness and begged off for bed. Another night passed in the oven-like room, surrounded by snoring and snuffling aliens. Below his bed, Joyn slept. He’d tried to infiltrate Keith’s bed, but that was the last thing Keith wanted. “I’m too big,” Keith had claimed when Joyn tried to join him. “There isn’t any room for you.” Keith had stretched out a bit more, trying to take up the entire pillow.

Joyn had eyed him before he pouted. “Fine,” Joyn declared. “But being alone all the time is bad for your health.” Then he’d curled up below Keith’s bed and closed his eyes, as though this was natural, as though Keith should feel ashamed for not letting Joyn on to the bed.

It wasn’t a sexual thing. He knew that by now. It was a bonding thing for Galra. People who were friends and nothing more cuddled together a few feet away. During dinner, claims were laid on people, as though it were a sleepover. Which it was: it was a sleepover every night.

Joyn wanted to bond and become friends with Keith. It’d be excellent for his cover to let that happen, but there was a psychological part of him that recoiled at any consideration. He didn’t see it as a bad thing. Not necessarily. He doubted Volux or Thace would cuddle with strangers or barely-friends. He tried to imagine Zarkon doing this when he was young and almost laughed. What was it, though, about the temple tenders that encouraged this?

Once again, he returned to the cultish atmosphere in the temple. Only here, he thought, would this go unremarked on and be accepted. While the Galra he’d met outside the temple could be quite… touchy, none of them were at this level. Every time he rolled over, he got to see Joyn’s twitching form.

He slept poorly, to no one’s surprise. The vial sat awkwardly against his side: his sleeping robe’s pocket was small and tight, meant to hold jewellery or the like. The glass dug into his flesh, like a constant reminder of what he was going to do. There wasn’t anything wrong with what he was doing, though. He was faking murder, not actually doing it. Elin would be terrified, but if he didn’t do it, someone else would. And they wouldn’t fake it.

When he woke, it was before anyone else in the room. It took maneuvering to step over Joyn, but he managed. Sweet silence greeted him in the halls. He relished it as he leaned against the closed door. Minutes passed and he relinquished his post in favour of finding the washroom. The temple-tenders had traditional Galran baths, in contrast to the more modern water-showers that the station sometimes had. It took an incredible amount of concentrated drying to use the water-showers, which he’d heard more than a few complaints about. But carrying tonnes of volcanic ash was less practical than recycling water.

He lounged in the ash. The temple’s baths were large, the size of two king size beds, and made for both public and private use. There were private baths and different rooms for genders: one for women, one for men, and two more for genders that only the Galra had. What they were, he didn’t know, but he knew someone like Volux would use one of the last two. He’d thought about asking after Galra genders, but it’d always felt odd, like it was personal information or an intrusion. Volux had never told him about them, so he’d figured there was a reason for that. All he really needed to know was that Volux was ‘they’ and nobody expressed shock or surprise at it. Even if it felt like a keen gap in his knowledge, he wouldn’t push for answers.

It was as he walked out of the bathroom, yawning and stretching, that he heard it. Faint whispers came from a nearby room, so quiet he almost thought it his imagination. But the whispers’ rising and falling tones made him think it real. He crept toward the source, grateful for the thin cloth on his feet. The closer he got, the more distinct the whispers became. They turned to two voices, one low while the other haughty and high. Another step, and he recognized the voices.

“It’s soon,” Qore said, voice sharp. “That’s all I know.”

Ravus sniffed. “That’s not good enough. I didn’t come from across the universe for a ‘soon’.”

He could almost hear Qore’s teeth grind. “I’m not in control of this, Ravus. It is what it is. All we can do is wait and hope that the truth comes soon.”

“Soon!” Ravus echoed. “Always soon. Soon we will hear from the others. Soon we’ll be joined by a comrade. For a leader, you have done little leading--”

Someone choked. It had to be Ravus. Whimpers and pained noises echoed louder than the whispers of before. Keith pressed against the wall, frozen, as he waited. The wait ended in a sharp inhale and gasp. “Your point,” Ravus panted, “is taken.” He heard footsteps as Ravus sidled toward the door. “...I apologize for the insolence.”

Qore didn’t seem interested in the apology. “Make sure you don’t bring it to the uncrowning, Ravus. The others will be far less forgiving.”

Keith darted back as Ravus’ foot appeared from the door. He bolted into the bathroom, shedding his robes so fast he stumbled on their hem. He jumped into the tub, a plume of ash flying up around him, and he felt his second eyelids flick closed. The sensation was so strange he recoiled back, shuddering.

Nobody followed him. He traced designs into the ash with his claws. He watched the door. He listened for whispers or footsteps. Nothing happened. The Clarion pair had left him with one thing only:

What was ‘the uncrowning’?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on the 29th!


	29. Chapter 29

_‘What was the uncrowning?’_

Keith had guesses. The only crown he knew about with the Galra rested on Zarkon’s head. It could refer to the Druids at a stretch. But their demise, as a concept, had always struck him as less immediate. Individuals would die, but the overthrowing of Zarkon would herald the purge’s start. Zarkon was the immediate goal, as were any ‘traitors’ to their rank.

There was an upcoming plan to dethrone Zarkon, then. Not unexpected. The Clarion were a thriving organization. They’d have plans upon plans, and taking out Zarkon was the first priority. It was a question of if they refered to all their plots against Zarkon as ‘uncrownings’ or if this one was special. There was nobody to ask, though; not the Clarions in the cell or someone like Volux or Thace.

In absence of someone to ask, he decided to ignore it. For now, at least. When he got close to someone on the outside, he’d tell them. He knew he should be more concerned. The uncrowning was an ominous title for anything, let alone from a terrorist group determined to mass murder.

But he needed to learn to let go. There was nothing he could do now. Playing mental and emotional charades with Hyladra was… It was an option. It was an option that risked miscommunicating the problem, alarming Hyladra, or just driving him to frustration further.

It wouldn’t be long. He’d have to help hold the prayer meeting for the faked assassination, and Hyladra would never let Elin go to it alone. He could tell her then. Simple. Easy.

He went through the day as though he’d heard and seen nothing. Ravus sulked, and nobody knew why, other than Keith and Qore. Keith imagined bruises beneath Ravus’ fur and shuddered. It stood out in the heavy heat in the temple. People didn’t shudder-- at least not from the cold. A few people eyed him. He didn’t meet their gazes.

It was at a late lunch that Volux’s plans went into motion. Keith’s empty plate had been attacked by Joyn: stewed meat sat atop a thick slice of bread. Joyn didn’t touch the vegetables. It was a childish disregard. Keith portioned out some when Joyn wasn’t looking, if only to avoid Joyn’s sniffy complaints about said vegetables. How old was Joyn, he wondered. The Galra acted like a petulant teen. How long did Galra live for? Were their life cycles similar to a human’s? He suspected this wasn’t the first time he’d wondered, but it was becoming increasingly pressing for him to know.

Either way, Keith picked at his food while Joyn all but shoved his face into his own plate. “Tenders are to be elegant,” Ravus admonished from afar. Joyn didn’t even grace him with a look. Joyn’s plate overflowed with meat and bread, and it vanished under his assault.

A few people muttered and sighed. Keith found himself spellbound by the scene. He’d never seen someone eat so wildly, like the food would be taken away at any time. “Joyn,” he murmured. “Joyn--”

Joyn looked up at him. Stew broth beaded on the fur around his mouth. “No,” Joyn said firmly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Yet he looked embarrassed, as though only Keith’s words had brought his attention to the scene he made. He prodded at a soft piece of meat that began to fall apart under the onslaught of firm bread. “...You look tired.”

Keith was always tired. At least around the Galra. It felt like his patience drained at the speed of light, and recharged like droplets from water torture. Whenever he realized he felt _well_ , something would happen and he’d find himself back at the bottom of his reserves. He couldn’t tell Joyn that, though. And not simply because it would raise suspicion. Joyn would take it personally, as though he’d been the one to singlehandedly drain the wellspring of patience.

“I am tired,” he acknowledged. They didn’t need to dwell on it, but what else could they talk about? Another unsettling thing about the commune was that there was very little to talk about. Everything that happened was seen by everyone. Keith sometimes felt like he lived, not as an individual, but as an extension of the concept of temple tender. How was Joyn’s dancing practice going? He already knew. Did he like the changes Keith brought to the arrangements? He already knew that too. He hated that he knew. He didn’t need to know the constant stream of emotion that fuelled the temple. The close quarters made his skin crawl.

“Why?” came Joyn’s inevitable question.

Keith’s mind raced to find answers that would end the conversation. ‘Because’ would start a squabble and hurt Joyn’s feelings, making Keith the villain for the next few days. The truth would offend everyone in the room. But there were happy mediums between those two. “The Voice’s needs are paramount and pressing. I find little time for temple duties, though I try to perform them sufficiently.”

Joyn made a sympathetic sound. “You do well, though.” Joyn seemed to chew over a thought. He took his time with it, and Keith covered up his impatience by eating. “You do things… strangely. You know that already, I know.,” Joyn added when Keith huffed out a soft laugh. “They’re not how it’s supposed to be. If you hadn’t been brought here, I’d doubt your abilities. But it’s-- it’s what’s needed.” Joyn didn’t sound certain of the words, and by his strained expression, he realized that too. “Things can’t be the same forever. We are meant to change and expand and _exist_ in the ever-flowing and ever-changing currents of the Voice. Having a few flowers in different spots should be the least we’re doing.”

Joyn looked at him with wide, doe-ish eyes. For someone so bratty, Keith thought, Joyn had a charming innocence that likely would have driven him mad back at the Garrison. But now, Keith admired it. Joyn would never know the real details of what the Empire did so long as Zarkon ruled. He’d continue through life wide-eyed and eager. His breakfast would come every day. His family would live in security back on Gal. His friends would smile and laugh and never be worked to death and left on their dying planet. Darkness hadn’t touched Joyn. If the Galra knew the things Keith had done, Joyn would be shocked. Not like other Galra he’d met: he suspected if Qore knew what he’d done, she wouldn’t even blink. Even the kinder Galra, like Hyladra, might feel a quiver of fear before understanding.

It was a cultural charade, he thought. The Galra were a species divided between the oblivious, the malicious, and the wholeheartedly _pragmatic_. Hyladra was the first, Qore the second, and Volux the last. Hyladra didn’t understand what the Empire did to those who weren’t blessed to be Galra. Qore knew, didn’t care, and likely wished to worsen their circumstances. Volux knew and yet-- what? He’d got the impression that Volux was far from enthused but believed that complaining or protesting was not their place. Did Volux hate the brutality? Or did they merely think it inefficient? It was the same problem with Thace. The man didn’t shower the Empire with praise, but then he didn’t seem ready to march in lockstep with Voltron either.

“Keirin?” Joyn asked. He pouted as Keith blinked back to awareness. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Keith blinked again. “Why would I do that on purpose?” he asked. Joyn wouldn’t meet his gaze, leaving Keith to fill in the blanks. Maybe others preferred to ignore him. What was charming to Keith may have been annoying to someone less jaded and quicker to judge. “My thoughts simply… swallowed me, I suppose. I apologize.” He rubbed at his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “For lunch, I already feel it’s midnight--”

The door swung open. Volux strode inside, their thick black robes heavy. Keith didn’t envy them: it was hot enough in the thin, brown, linen robes the temple tenders were forced to wear. “Fa’lah drabar,” Volux declared. The temple tenders repeated it back, though Keirin struggled to imitate the airy cadence. The old blessing meant something to do with the sun’s rays. Anything more than that, he couldn’t remember. “I appreciate that it is time to dine, but I’m looking for a volunteer. Preferably more, but I know how busy your duties can make you.”

Strangely, none of the temple tenders were eager to speak, as though they feared Volux. Which was bizarre: Druids were held in high esteem, and he’d never heard an unkind word about them among the temple tenders. Maybe, he thought, it was nervousness from the implied personal attention. Their group had been chosen to help.

Either way, he needed to push the plan along. “We’re honoured,” he said gravely. Volux stared at him, and Keith could feel the eyeroll. Keith’s expression didn’t change from solemnity. “I would offer myself, if that isn’t presumptuous--”

Volux waved a hand. “Far from,” they said. “I was hoping for someone to. Are there any others as well? It is quite a task to organize a public prayer session.”

Keith glanced at Joyn. When the Galra didn’t meet his eyes, he turned to Qore and Ravus. If they saw Elin’s faked death, they’d have little reason to doubt him. If it went well, anyway. There was no telling if it wouldn’t end in disaster. Calculated risks were still risks, after all.

“I’ll assist,” Qore said. “We wouldn’t want to overburden Keirin, after all.”

He shuddered at the purr in her voice. It didn’t bode well for anything. “Thank you,” he said softly. He gave her a nod and turned back to Volux. “When shall we begin the arrangements?”

“Come with me,” Volux said. “If you’ve finished your meal?” They looked between Qore and Keith, their mask expertly concealing their feelings on the matter. Keith knew they were impatient, though. They almost always were. Nobody moved at the right speed for Volux, and that speed was fast and faster.

Qore had finished her meal. Keith hadn’t, but he stood anyway. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to Joyn. Joyn’s ears lowered, as though crushed. Maybe he’d wanted Keirin to ask him to go. It wouldn’t shock Keith, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something like this. For all of Joyn’s bravado, he seemed to crave attention and praise. Maybe Keith was being unsympathetic by shrugging off Joyn’s disappointment. But how could he have known Joyn’s secret desires?

He tried to leave the thought behind as he left the room. Qore swaggered along in front of him, her head held high. A smug smile broke her facade of inoffensiveness. Whatever schemes she had going, she seemed genuinely pleased to have been taken. It was strange to be glad that a Clarion was smug, but he had greater goals.

Volux took them to the edge of the temple quarter. They went to a side room, filled with a holostation and seating. Keith took a seat in the corner by the holostation. Volux swept through the room, collecting a pair of printed books that Keith tried not to gawk at. They then took a seat at the holostation, though they ignored the screen and keyboard.

“Tender Qore,” Volux said, “you will take notes.” They handed a pad to Qore, who didn’t seem annoyed at the command.

Which was good. That… was something that Keith hadn’t thought about. He was a step away from losing his cover if anyone ever asked him to do notes. Hyladra was there in his mind, sure, but dictation was a special and difficult skill, even when you knew the language backwards and forwards. He’d flounder after the first few words. Galran was extremely phonetic, so he had that, but the writing system was agonizing complex. While a keyboard would help, he only vaguely knew the layout.

Qore knew it, though. Better than average. As they talked about flower arrangements, Qore’s fingers flew across the pad’s surface. She didn’t even have to look or check her dictation. Was it a skill temple tenders were taught? Volux and Thace had never covered it, but then there was little point to teaching him it. A week wasn’t enough, and he didn’t know written Galran beyond the basics.

“What will the ventilation be like?” Keith asked Volux, trying to peel his mind away from Qore. “Flowers and incense will be too much for a confined space. In the temple, we’re at least used to it.”

Volux sat sprawled in their chair, their arms crossed. Keith could imagine their lips pursed behind the mask as their gaze picked apart the two temple tenders they’d assembled. Volux didn’t approve of the character-- Keith knew that-- but what did Volux think when they saw Keith in his Galra form? Was it strange to see someone they’d thought of as an enemy, then an intriguing experiment, and now something so complex as an enemy turned ally sitting in front of them, wearing their race’s form like a costume?

“The ventilation will be fine.” Volux glanced at the holoscreen. “Keirin, I would ask that you attend to the components of the ceremony. Qore, you may assist me in conducting  the rite. I believe it would be for the benefit of Central Command to be exposed to other methods of the rite. I also have education in the Ashwastes’ traditions, so you need not fear my being an awkward partner.”

Qore-- and God, was it strange-- _beamed_ at Volux. “You flatter me,” she told them. “I am honoured at your trust and your desire to spread my people’s traditions. Many are… less inclined to such kindness.”

Volux shrugged. “A Druid is meant to hold no prejudices.” Keith choked on a laugh. Volux certainly didn’t obey _that_ part of the doctrine. “The Galra may have been divided in the past, but under the Emperor, we have ascended beyond such pettiness.”

Something flickered in Qore’s eyes. She probably thought Volux couldn’t read it. Maybe they’d think it grimness at the thought of how few met Zarkon’s expectations. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. But Keith knew her heart, and Volux did too. There was hatred in her eyes, even as the glowing quintessence hid their depths. Qore smiled, false and broad. “Praise to the Emperor,” she said. The honey-sweet words tasted sour to Keith.

Yet all he could do was echo her words, and Volux followed soon after. When the meeting ended, Keith didn’t wait for Qore. He went to the storage room and fussed over flowers, candles, and incense. Did he remember enough of what he’d been taught to construct a ritual? He wasn’t sure. There was only so much he could pass off as being from a far off colony. Knowing Central Command, there might be dozens of Galra from the same place, and they’d know their own traditions. The ritual needed to be classically done. It needed to be flawless and he needed someone to help him with that.

Which brought him back to Joyn. A poor dancer, but an excellent arranger with years of experience. Joyn’s immaturity would make him accept unthinkingly Keith’s request for help. Joyn wanted to be involved in special things, like a child would, and it might salvage their relationship for Keith to ask him to help. The thoughts were a little too cold for Keith’s liking. They were true, though, and Keith soon abandoned the storage room to hunt down Joyn.

He found Joyn brooding in the meal room. Joyn stacked dishes upon dishes and bowls inside bowls. Someone had evidently dumped their duties on the boy-- and boy Joyn was. He acted so painfully young that it aged Keith by decades. Joyn was like a bright if extremely immature fifteen year old. Every time he spoke to Joyn, he wondered how the Galra hadn’t been eaten alive with sharks like Qore lurking in the halls.

He didn’t think Joyn had the malice to join the Clarion nor the ambition. Joyn’s goals were to dance well while centre stage, earn lots of praise, and become the greatest temple tender on Central Command. Simple goals when among the snakes of the station. They’d become especially laudable when Keith found Joyn didn’t sabotage people. It would have been very easy to tear down others and become a star.

Joyn didn’t know these thoughts, though. All he had was Keith’s abandonment from earlier and hurt feelings from that. He refused to meet Keith’s eyes when Keith entered the room. “...Did the meeting go well?” Joyn asked, though, unable to resist curiosity.

“Sufficiently,” Keith said. Joyn’s nose scrunched up at the word. “I’m to work on setting up the service. I’d like to request your help.”

Joyn’s face brightened. Then it fell, and Keith couldn’t tell why. “It would be your task, though,” Joyn said, as though that mattered.

And maybe it did. Maybe he was concerned that Keith would take all the credit, leaving Joyn to slave over the service and receive no attention. Keith considered Joyn’s frown. “It would be both of ours. I would inform Druid Volux of what is transpiring. You can join me at the service itself.”

That was the right bait to place. Joyn’s face brightened. “What is the service’s theme?”

Keith forced his lips not to curl. “The duty we have to the Emperor.” Volux had to have planned it to rankle him. It’d also make Elin’s death a bigger scene, but he leaned more towards Volux having their little bit of fun.

Joyn nodded along, happy as ever. “We definitely need to be reminded of that,” he said. Because he was Joyn, there was no trace of sarcasm. “Recent things have been so upsetting. So many strange things happening…” Joyn shook his head. “Even the Paladin has been hidden.”

Too close and too awkward. “We’ll need arrangements in traditional colours,” Keith said. It wasn’t his best distraction, but Joyn didn’t seem to care. “Then it’s a matter of incense--”

“Is the ventilation good?” Joyn asked. Keith almost laughed. The topic was safe, and he buried himself into the finer details of the ceremony.

Joyn assumed things. He assumed Keith knew every book on flower arrangements written by the Druids and tenders through the ages. He assumed Keith had studied every motion of every dance. Keith had, to Joyn’s mind, cooked every meal, drank every drink, and sang every song.

Mostly because Joyn had. The longer he talked to Joyn, the more unnerved he became. Joyn’s obsessiveness rivalled Hunk’s love of food or Pidge’s skill with computers. Barring his incompetence at dancing, Joyn could have handled the entire service on his own. Which was good because while Keith was passable at dancing, his memory had turned into a sieve under stress. He remembered parts-- most of the basics, some of the intermediate, and very little of the advanced.

Constructing the ritual was advanced. While Joyn sketched out plants Keith had only seen in passing and arranged them into complex bouquets on his pad, Keith pretended to be hard at work, as though taking notes. So long as he kept Joyn talking, the Galra was unlikely to ask to see Keith’s work. He felt like he was back in high school: it was once again English, and he’d lost his ability to care about whatever torrid romantic tragedy the teacher had presented that month. Doodling could be disguised as taking notes so easily. The one time he’d been called on it, it’d been Shiro in private. Shiro had been assisting a professor in setting up the lecture, and he’d been around long enough afterward to see Keith mentally check out of the professor’s speech on regulations. In Keith’s defense, it’d been a speech on uniform regulations. Point by point, the slideshow that Shiro had set up for the technically inept professor picked apart button choices, tie knots, and skirt lengths.

Keith had thought, at the time, that after several months of the Garrison, everyone would know the rules. By the grim and tired looks that’d been visible throughout the room, most students thought the same. But Keith pretended to watch the professor with rapt attention as his pencil drew small trees, rolling mountains, and whatever else he’d have preferred the Garrison to have been situated in. Even if Toronto wasn’t what he’d call _green_ , it had more plant life than the Garrison ever would. Which was the point of the Garrison, of course: it was where it was for simulating the atmosphere of other planets, like the moon or Mars.

“I can gather the flowers,” Joyn decided. Keith blinked back to reality. “You wanted this to be a relaxed ceremony, right?”

“Relaxed,” Keith echoed before his brain engaged. “Preferably. Food, drink, pleasant smells and sights, and many places to sit. I’ll arrange the furniture and the like. You can decorate it, if you wish.”

Joyn beamed at him. “Thank you for the privilege!”

Keith tried not to feel unsettled. He’d almost expected a ‘sir’ from Joyn. There was something a little too slavish in Joyn’s attitude. Butting heads about it would solve nothing. It’d likely make Joyn’s submissive attitude worse. But Keith marvelled that such an innocent, if brattish, Galra had survived this long. His parents must have rushed to put him into temple tending. It was the only place that’d coddle his childishness.

They were rude thoughts to be having. Keith forced a smile. “I am simply pleased that you are willing to help,” he said and stood. “I should go fetch the supplies and make the necessary orders. You will be all right?”

Joyn nodded. “Of course,” he said, cheery as the sun’s golden rays.

Keith tried not to flee. He kept his walk steady and his smile pasted on his face, but Joyn’s happiness did more than unsettle him: it made him feel guilty. As though he needed more of that feeling. As though there was any way to lessen or be rid of it. The reality was that Joyn’s innocence made him easily manipulated. Keith didn’t doubt that Joyn would let ‘Keirin’s’ identity slip by accident. Even if Joyn managed to keep it quiet during the Clarion threat, what would happen after? People like Keith, Thace, and Hyladra struggled enough with Central Command’s backbiting and treachery. Someone like Joyn would drown, and he’d cling to someone to save him, bringing them down with him.

Keith had no intention of carrying Joyn’s dead weight. The boy meant well, was intelligent, and tried his hardest to please but that wasn’t what was needed among the Galra. Which was cold to think. It sounded like something Volux would say. _Toss him in the lake and leave him there to drown_ would be Volux’s opinion. Joyn would be heartbroken that a Druid thought that of him. He’d feel betrayed that a fellow temple tender agreed with the sentiments, if not the way it was put.

Being on Central Command had twisted his heart more than he’d expected. He thought back to when, months ago, he’d proposed leaving Allura at Central Command. The option had turned his stomach, and the reaction from the others had made his cheeks flush in shame. Later, while a Galra captive, he’d believed himself at fault. Leaving Allura had never been an option. Going on his own to save the Black Lion had been foolish. The fault for his capture lay at his own two feet.

Yet now, he looked at the world through glowing gold eyes. He’d been a voice of reason among the desperation from the other Paladins and Coran. Rescuing the Black Lion from Zarkon’s clutches had been the right thing to do. If he hadn’t intervened, Zarkon would have taken it. If he hadn’t engaged Zarkon, he would have torn to shreds the other Paladins. None of them had Keith’s skill, barring Shiro. The guilt of what he’d done as a Paladin had lifted.

The guilt of what he’d done as Keith the captive remained, and the guilt of what he’d done as Keirin the Galra would soon come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! RL got in the way. Next update will be the 25th. If you want to keep up with what's happening re: progress on the next chapter, you can find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com. :3
> 
> Thank you for all the kind messages and comments you guys left on the last chapter! I loved reading each of them. ;v;


	30. Chapter 30

The wine tasted tart and almost bitter. He poured a finger into a series of round, clay glasses. Behind him, Joyn fussed over flower blossoms arranged like lily pads over the thick soup. “Are you sure we have enough blossoms?” Joyn asked for the third time. 

“Too many,” Keith said, “and it’ll ruin the soup’s taste. Function over form.”

Joyn hummed behind him. “If you’re sure.” Doubt lingered in his voice. 

Keith didn’t reply. Joyn’s nerves were bad, understandably so, but Keith wasn’t doing any better. Elin hadn’t arrived yet. In his pocket, a vial of the meditation room’s tea waited. Its reddish-purple colour matched the tea Keith had chosen well. Joyn had wanted a white, shimmery tea called ‘star tea’ initially, but Keith had argued for the more traditional and purple coloured ‘Duskflower tea’. It made sense since the service was about Zarkon: a white tea was too neutral, too ready for people to project their own thoughts on to.

He’d felt like a particularly pretentious art student by the end, but Joyn had agreed. When Joyn went back to the stores while Keith slipped away to bottle the tea. Even walking into the meditation room had left him dizzy. A group of tenders had lazed in the room earlier-- he’d been warned of their presence through the undulating music they listened to-- but they’d left for other tasks, leaving behind the quickly cooling tea. His stomach had grumbled as he gingerly dipped the vial into the pot. The tea smelled as good as it had the first time-- of chocolate, cinnamon, and cream-- but now that he knew its power, he was grateful that pinching the vial between his claws saved his fur and skin from touching the psychedelic. 

It wasn’t going to kill Elin. If it touched his skin, he wasn’t going to pass out. It was breathing it for an extended period of time. Still, when he’d lifted the vial, he snapped the cap on using his claws. 

He’d sent Joyn off to fetch another bundle of pillows for the chance to talk to Qore. It was less a talk and more a meeting of gazes that had Keith pulling the vial from his pocket. Her eyes had widened as her grin grew. Her expression vanished when he put the vial back. “Your arrangements are pretty,” she told him. “Though the blankets are poor for an Ashwastes service.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Joyn had treated them as typical fare for a service, but then the Ashwastes were hotter, dustier, and poorer than the capital that Joyn said he came from. “I can get rid of them,” he said. 

Qore shook her head. “The Station’s people will expect them.” She sighed. “Druid Volux believes this will help us overcome old divisions.”

“You don’t, by the sounds of it.”

Qore smiled thinly. “I think quite a bit of time has been spent maligning my people and our traditions.” Her eyes darted to glance down the hall. People milled about, mostly support workers for the temple. “Despite the Emperor’s high commands.”

She blamed him for her people’s fate, then. Keith couldn’t judge how fair that was. His knowledge of Zarkon’s policies was confined to ‘defend and expand the empire’, ‘capture Voltron’, and ‘worship the Voice’. All his actions in pushing for rank equality fit defending the empire-- making it more sustainable as an institution-- and worshipping the Voice. The Galra’s negativity, Keith had thought, had been directed towards outsiders instead of each other. But maybe the Ashwasters were still convenient to blame: they were close when opposing races were far, and they had millennia of slander to fight against already. So if the now supposedly enlightened Galra pushed around the Ashwasters… well, Zarkon had bigger problems. Like the Clarion or the Paladins or his own scheming pawns. It left the Ashwasters to fend for themselves, but Keith doubted many made it high in the ranks, and he doubted that fewer still would be compelled by the Clarion desire to return to rank-based systems. 

Except for Qore. He remembered being told that the Clarion would promise low-ranking Galra that their rank would ascend as the Clarion cause did. Perhaps she thought she could escape the latent viciousness Galra society directed at the Ashwasters. Even more, maybe she hoped to elevate her people as a whole under the new regime. The former was selfish, if understandable; the latter qualified as noble, if deeply misguided. 

He didn’t chase her reasoning. They drifted into an uncomfortable silence, though Qore likely didn’t realize the discomfort on his end. If he found out her justification, he thought, nothing good would come of it. Anger at her would only harm his cover. Any sympathy could make him hesitate. He focused on folding the blankets into triangles and squares. He stacked them in an alternating pattern. They were supposed to symbolize the rocks and glass windows of the Sonata Palace. He didn’t know much about said Palace, other than the fact that it was where Zarkon reigned. When he returned to Gal, that was where Zarkon would rest and govern. The only picture he’d seen of it had been a pixelated image on a pad, handed over to him by Thace. 

Keith had frowned. “...I can’t see much.”

“That’s the point,” Thace had replied. “I can’t give you detail-- that is a security risk-- but it would be strange for someone to know little or nothing about the Palace. Most children dream of visiting.”

Did young Galra dream of being princes and princesses at the Sonata Palace? Which brought another strange question: the Galra had their version of nobility, but did they have royalty? They called Zarkon ‘Emperor’, but that meant little. The title was being translated through multiple cultural views-- that of Hyladra, his, and sometimes the Red Lion. Emperor could simply be the Galra version of ‘warlord’ or ‘supreme leader’. Keith tugged at the corners of the blankets. Their woven reeds made a pleasant scrunching sound.

Was Zarkon’s family part of the royal family? Did Zarkon  _ have _ a family? He hadn’t heard anything about daughters, sons, or spouses., but then Zarkon might prefer to keep them from the limelight. Zarkon, until recently, seemed to have had little reason to worry about lines of succession. Why bring out a child who may gather power to overthrow him?

He wanted to know, though. Asking those currently around him would be strange, but when he got out. When he wasn’t Keirin anymore, which was hopefully soon. “I brought the Duskflower tea!” Joyn announced as he wheeled in barrel. “Help me lift it, Keirin!”

It was less help and more replacing Joyn. The other Galra’s frame resembled lumpy twigs tied together with hair-thin string. Joyn ‘supervised’ as Keith grunted, heaving up the barrel. Qore whistled behind him. “Someone spars,” Qore said slyly.

Sharp worry lanced through him. He focused on adjusting the barrel’s position on the table, beside the blankets. She was teasing, he reminded himself. She didn’t think he actually fought. Temple-tending could be physically demanding, and lifting a barrel didn’t reveal his disguise. 

“Only unruly blankets,” Keith said, “and sloth. Joyn, you have the tap?”

Joyn lifted a black, metal tap up. “Of course!”

“Then I leave the rest to you ,” he said. The Duskflower tea barrel radiated heat. Freshly brewed, its potency would wake worshippers up to go back on duty. Before that, though, the incenses would lull them into a daze. 

When Volux arrived, most of the hall had been converted to a temple. Qore rested on a pile of pillows. She snacked on green berries, a smug smile on her face. It didn’t dim when Volux stopped in front of her. “You are prepared for the service, correct?” Volux’s mask hid their features, but their voice carried their displeasure.

Qore shrugged, though she pushed herself up with a juice-stained hand. “I studied the texts,” she told Volux. “And I practiced the songs. I’m simply relaxing before the strain of the service.”

Keith imagined Volux’s frown deepening. It sounded like it had: “The difficulties of service are to be endured. We do this for their hearts and minds. Luxuriating in the pleasures we have arranged for those in need of our help is… obscene.”

Pain flashed over Qore’s face. Was it regret or her taking insult? “I apologize, Druid Volux,” she said stiffly. She abandoned the pillows and placed the berries back on the table. Volux didn’t follow her. They didn’t even continue the conversation.

Keith counted that as for the best. He didn’t know if Volux’s knowledge of Qore’s traitorous leanings fuelled their ire, but he still feared it alarming her. “Should we light the incense?” Keith asked, just to fill the silence. 

Volux nodded once. “The service will start soon. The hall should be flooded with the scent of a temple and the sound of prayer even before others arrive. Joyn, I can trust you with the chanting?”

By accident or purpose, Volux had made Joyn’s day. Joyn scampered to a nearby book, wrapped in plastic to protect its paper pages; he began to chant, the language foreign to Hyladra and thus foreign to Keith. It had to be ancient Galran which meant that only Volux had any idea of what it said.

Qore took up her post beside an altar of flowers, clear jugs of water, and candles. A symbol of the Voice-- a teardrop surrounded by strange, looping marks--has been carved into the altar’s backdrop in a sharp pink. Below, the amphora he’d seen at his service waited, its liquid still an unsettling prismatic array of colours. In the cold light of the hall, the amphora itself looked more pedestrian, less like it’d been woven from an aurora. 

That changed as Keith dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and set the incense to smoking. Already a headache built at the base of his skull. It was like his senses feared the temples. He didn’t hold it against them: the Galran mysteries that surrounded the species rarely brought him anything good, and now he was staging a murder. 

People began to file into the hall what felt like twenty minutes later. By then, incense choked the hall. Keith breathed through his mouth. Even still, the incense tortured his nose. Joyn’s chanting had faltered as the incense reached critical mass. Volux had stopped in front of him, staring Joyn down from behind their mask. It’d been motivation for Joyn to keep going. That, and Keith’s hastily delivered cup of Duskflower tea. 

Qore paced around the altar until the first person appeared from around the corner. Then she took up her post, her arms at her sides and her chin high in the air. Her broad features, extremely clipped fur, and thin lips made him think, strangely, of Zarkon. She lacked cat-like ears and a mane of reddish hair tumbled down to her shoulders. Only her station as a temple tender protected it from being clipped. 

She was from the Ashwastes. Her low rank kept her apart from those who were Yexin or higher. Yet she bore herself proudly, so similar in many ways to how Keith imagined Zarkon to have been before ascending as Black Paladin and then Emperor. She was a revolutionary whose ideals had brought her in a different direction than Zarkon. If that direction hadn’t been littered with bodies, he may have been able to respect her more. 

Keith manned the drums. The pair were each the size of dinner plates. A tap brought out a high note; a solid thump issued something low and breathy. He’d learned to play them in two hours, under Volux’s questionable tutelage. Keith hadn’t known Galran beats; Volux hadn’t been comfortable even touching the drums. “Music is the lifeblood of the world,” Keith had said as Volux once again dodged touching the drums. “It’d make you less sour to beat something, if nothing else.”

Volux had swatted  _ him _ instead. “Keep your sass to yourself.” 

He’d spent the rest of the lesson needling Volux. He hated the drums. They hurt to hit, their sound was a weird echo, and mimicking Galran music preferences gave him a headache. Now, in a moment of supreme karma, Volux had assigned him the drums. If something went wrong, Joyn would never forgive him. The boy glowed as he chanted. His enthusiasm spread to others: a few Galra who passed Keith’s drumming station hummed along to the words, as though they were a song.

Each thump of the drum mirrored his frantic heartbeat. The service went along without a hitch, though there were murmurs at certain things-- like the section Volux preached, the flourishes of the drums Keith had been directed to do, and the dance Qore performed.

Qore swayed and writhed, like in casual Galran dancing, but she included twirls and sudden displays of agility: darting legs, spiralling arms, and sudden twists. A few Galra gasped as she danced. It was so far from the geometric and regimented dancing of the temple. Qore danced freely, her eyes closed and a smile on her face. One Galra abandoned their seat and stiffly marched down the hall, away from the scene. Their thick fur and large, bat-like ears marked them as high-ranking. Joyn’s chanting faltered as the high-ranking Galra left. Keith looked right at Joyn and smiled, if a bit raggedly. It seemed to comfort him. 

Despite Keith’s anxiety, he couldn’t help but admire Qore’s dancing. She’d never done that kind in the temple: understandable, with Ravus’ talk of curses for straying from the capital’s way of worship. As though the Voice he’d encountered would care about such things. She cared more about obedience and absorbing her subjects into her Chorus. The thoughts would be called blasphemous by most Galra. They were true, though. Every time she’d dragged him to her realm, her focus had been on making him submit and join the Chorus. She wanted his worship-- not his health, not his safety, and not his happiness.

Maybe he read his experiences wrong. Maybe Volux would have a lecture pre-packaged for such feelings. He didn’t care. He knew what she’d said and he knew what he’d felt.

When the time came for the amphora to be poured, Qore lifted a planter of flowers from a table and placed it in front of the altar. Volux’s voice rang as they spoke of the blessings of the earth. Minerals, plants, life, and water: those were what the ground begat. Even the Voice, in her majesty, dwelled beneath the sands. 

_ A beacon beneath the sand.  _ He’d heard that so many times from so many people. Zarkon had mentioned it when talking about the sun and moons of Gal. It’d appeared in Haggar’s prayers. Even Hyladra had mentioned beacon points when talking about what Harim traditionally did. Haggar had spoke of a song the Voice sang, and he knew it was the leader of the Chorus. All the Galra who joined to her sang their own versions of what they heard from the Voice. Did they hear the din? Or did they hear their perception of the Voice? So long ago, but what had been only a month, he’d assumed the singing mentioned in Haggar’s prayer to be a simple natural fact. Some sands created a bassoon wail when the wind blew over them. It would be easy, he’d thought, for some simple shepherd or farmer to believe the sand holy.

He knew better now. He’d never heard sands sing, only knew about it from books, but he imagined they sounded the Chorus’ roar. Every Galra who worshipped was a grain of sand in the Voice’s desert. Even just by playing the drums, Keith felt like he risked become another grain. 

Volux lifted the amphora with white gloved hands. The dark, shadowy liquid came out in a steady stream, slower than water but faster than any syrup. The flickering candles emphasized the amphora’s auroric material and the sparkling liquid inside. It looked like if someone had distilled space to its essence. Volux had aimed the stream to not hit any of the plants. It joined the red earth inside the planter. Smoke rose, as it had before, and the reek of incense receded as summer wind and heavy rain plumed outward. Keith breathed deep. It was such a foreign smell on Central Command. It brought him to memories of thunderstorms in Toronto and long nights in the desert. 

Joyn held a long, sharp note of the chant as Volux poured. Qore kneeled beside the planter, her forehead pressed against its rim. Keith’s hands stung as he created an earthquake of sound. Faster, faster, and faster he went, until the final drop of liquid dripped from the amphora’s lip. Then he stopped. Joyn went silent. The only sound was a  _ clink _ as Volux placed the amphora back on the altar.

People breathed in the smoke. One woman cried beside a teary-eyed man. Galra, Keith noticed, were closer together than how the service had started. Their expressions were bare and raw. It meant something to them, more than it ever would Keith. None of them moved, outside of pressing together. 

Volux stepped to the centre, behind the planter. They spread their arms wide. For the first time since the soldiers had come, they spoke in modern Galran. “We are here,” Volux said, “by the will of the Voice and the grace of the Emperor.”

Keith blinked. Judging by what he’d heard from others, most would have phrased it the other way. The Emperor was the commander who directed the Galra through his will; the Voice saved the collective soul of the race. And yet, as Volux continued, a different picture was painted. 

“The Emperor’s grace has blessed us with a society no longer chained by old prejudices.” Volux stared out at the crowd. Their mask disguised the precise person they looked at. It allowed everyone to feel like Volux watched them. “Our shackles were broken thousands of years ago. From their iron, the Emperor built an empire of legend. The Galra are feared and respected by billions of souls. He brought to us luxuries from across the universe. The very earth and sand we’d survive on became enriched through the Emperor’s efforts.”

Qore watched him, her face serene with awe. Volux didn’t acknowledge her presence. “He brought to us the Voice. She who has blessed each of our beings with strength, love, and knowledge. She has commanded us to follow the Emperor who blessed us with Her presence.” 

One woman seemed particularly moved by the words. Her shoulders shook as she nodded along to Volux’s speech. The man beside her pressed against her side, as though trying to comfort her. Volux thundered along, their voice rising. “The Voice demands that we protect our lands and people from not only outsiders, but internal threats. One of these threats that has become more pressing is the Clarion.”

It felt like everyone held their breath at the word. The vial in Keith’s robe pocket burned against his skin. “They poison our thoughts, pushing us to abandon what made us great. What use is the Voice, they say, as they gain succor from Her kindness. Why should we follow the Emperor, they whisper, while they consume the bounty he has blessed his people with. The Clarion are parasites: they cling to our strength, feed, and then weaken us with their presence.”

Qore’s expression didn’t change. Keith watched her, though, waiting for something, anything. “They wish to return to the old ages. They forget the strife, the misery, and the pain, all so they could once again proclaim themselves the soldiers of the Empire without toil. They would see these rites-- Ashwastes rites, Saltlands customs, even the practices of the Highlanders-- vanish. For only their customs are worthy of practice and only they are worthy to perform them. No Galra would love outside their station. No Galra would break the shackles of their rank. This is not the future we want. It is what the Voice and Emperor have saved us from.”

Nobody spoke, not even a murmur. But people nodded, their glowing eyes rivalling the room’s candles. “Stand,” Volux commanded. “Join me in protecting our people, Empire, and the Voice’s Chorus. Dissonant voices will not be tolerated, for they threaten our lives and souls. Vow to the Voice and to me as Her druid that you will strike down the Clarion at every turn!”

The silence broke as a roaring cheer went up. Keith startled. His hands brushed against the drums, but the low beat was barely audible in the din. He glanced over at Joyn who looked to be barely restraining a cheer. Qore beamed at the crowd. Volux’s hands had fallen to their sides. A small remote control was pulled from their pocket and they clicked a button on it. The lights throughout the hall began to brighten. Galra stood en masse and stretched, talked, and laughed, as though Volux hadn’t been advocating violence and death. 

This was Keith’s cue, though. He abandoned the drums for the Duskflower tea dispenser. Dozens of cups were stacked around it. He began to fill them, one by one. People came and collected the cups at a leisurely pace. Most were more interested in the food. One Galra stole a whole loaf of mealy bread. They took large bites between jaw-cracking yawns. 

Qore, meanwhile, arranged the altar and its components for transportation. Joyn commanded the snack table with less of an iron fist and more of a glass one. People took entire containers of yogurt and Joyn simply smiled. Galra, Keith reflected, had the table manners of actual cats. Everything was up for grabs, even, in one case, a decorative if edible plant.

The steaming hot tea Keith served smell floral and sweet. Little petals remained in the tea. They were a pastel violet, floating in a sea of mauve. Every time he gave one to someone, they would hold it to their nose and breathe deep. Their features would perk up, and when their eyes opened, he saw a newfound energy. He figured it was Galra coffee, except with less adulterants.

Elin joined the line after a dozen cups were handed out. Keith couldn’t help but search for Hyladra, but she was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she was on duty. He reached out with his mind, but all he sensed was anxiety and tension. Which may have been him and not her, really. Elin scraped at plate covered in syrup. Shreds of Galran crepe littered the edges, all of them drenched in the apple-y sauce.

His hands shook as he adjusted his robe between handing out the cups. He dipped his fingers into a pocket and slipped the vial free. He curled his hand around the vial, hiding it from sight. It felt cold against his palm’s bare skin. The purple liquid would blend in perfectly with the Duskflower tea. When Elin’s turn arrived, he went through the usual motions: he bowed to her, turned on his heel, and shielded the tea-pouring process from the eyes of any watching.

The cap made no sound when he popped it open. The liquid drizzled into the cup’s bottom. He pressed the tap and the hot tea flowed from the barrel, into the cup, and covered the slightly reddish-purple liquid. 

Where did the meditation tea come from? What made it psychedelic? He hadn’t asked Volux, too caught up in the plot, but it mattered now. Or maybe it didn’t. He didn’t need to know where it came from to fake Elin’s death. Qore might ask a few questions, but would she really expect him to know much? It didn’t seem like common knowledge. 

Elin took the cup without looking at him. He wondered if she knew he was the one who had to kill her. ‘Kill’, really, but it had to be unsettling to be in a room of unknown assassins. She played her part well as she wandered away, sipping at the cup. It would take a few minutes for the poison to take effect-- not from any sophisticated knowledge of Keith’s, but because the poison lay at the cup’s bottom. Elin sat among a group of other Galra and seemed to settle into a sense of quiet.

Keith forced himself to look away and tend to the others in the line. His hands wanted to shake but he refused to indulge those nerves. He smiled widely as he handed another woman a cup of tea. The vial, empty but stained by the poison, rested in his pocket once again. Part of him wanted to dump it, as though it were a black spot on his palm, but that risked someone not in the conspiracy finding it. 

The line shrunk. Most people weren’t interested in seconds of the tea. It was a bit strange-- he’d thought of it as Galran coffee, but maybe it wasn’t. A lot of humans would have at least two cups before declaring themselves done for the morning. Shiro had a tendency to drink every time he walked past a coffee pot. 

Someone coughed. Keith initially ignored it: sniffles and coughs were common in such close quarters. He’d seen the flu bowl over entire departments at the Garrison. On Central Command, the cold defeated even the burliest Galra. Hyladra had spent a miserable week with a box of kleenex wherever she went.

But they kept coughing. They wheezed, their voice cracked, and concerned voices rose. “Elin,” a man asked, “can you breathe?” 

The only reply was a hacking cough. Keith cringed at the wet sound. Was it phlegm or blood? Probably both. A cup fell from her hand with a clatter. Keith hesitated before he abandoned his post at the barrel. The coughing continued. “Move!” Volux barked. Galra receded like a wave. Volux arrived just as Keith did.

Elin was curled up, coughing. “Can you breathe?” Volux demanded. Elin whimpered. Volux grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. “Stand back-- all of you!” Gold began to swirl around Volux’s hands. Keith was torn between gasping and laughing: the quintessence was mesmerizing, but at some point, Volux had written themself into the situation as the hero. Quintessence lanced from Volux’s hands, into Elin’s body. She spasmed violently. More and more quintessence infused her form. A wail built in her chest, muffled by her gagging. When it burst free, Galra around him jerked back.

“It hurts,” she sobbed as she looked out at the room. “It hurts so much, please--”

Keith’s skin crawled. Her gold eyes were a sickly orange. Whatever they saw, it terrified her. She flinched back as a friend approached. Only Volux’s tight grip kept her in place. “Focus on my voice,” they said. “The pain will dull.” Another wave of quintessence crashed into her. Her orange eyes brightened, almost to a liquid gold, but the moment Volux stopped, they darkened to a rusted colour. Volux leaned in, their hands adjusting Elin’s head. “Joyn, fetch medics. She’s been poisoned.”

Whispers turned to gasps and then to a deadly silence. Military training seemed to kick in: Galra formed neat lines along the corridor, as though Elin wasn’t dying on the floor a few feet away. Her friends watched her uneasily from their spots. Keith gathered blankets and hurried over to Elin. Volux waved him away. “Send the others into rooms. Lock the doors. Nobody is to speak to each other. Qore, help me steady her.”

Qore dove in to help. It left Keith to dither, blankets in hand. Volux sent him another sharp look, partly disguised by the mask they wore. Keith released the blankets. Elin’s shallow breaths were punctuated by choked whimpers, as though she was drowning in her own fluids. Keith didn’t look back as he began to conduct groups of Galra into the corridor’s rooms. None of them spoke. The only thing to hear was Elin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is on the third! Thank you all for the lovely comments and for reading. <3 Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	31. Chapter 31

He took the lines into a connecting corridor. Segments were ushered into rooms. Keith left the doors open so he could listen for whispers. He knew none of them had any idea of what had happened, but pretenses needed to be maintained. When everyone had been sent to their respective room, Keith took up vigil by the corridor’s door.

Nobody spoke. It was eerie-- even at the Garrison, people would whisper when under guard. Students were young-- 17 at minimum, with the oldest usually being 22. It was a military college that tended to have quick graduates, largely due to overachievers and being active year-round. Keith had joined the Garrison as a minor, but he’d turned 18 a month later while attending. It’d made him one of the younger students at the Garrison. Even those older by several years had never been able to resist light whispers to nearby friends while the officers took attendance. Keith had done enough pushups as punishment to know that. 

He couldn’t hear Elin anymore. Any feelings of gratitude were overshadowed by the knowledge of her pain. The poison wouldn’t kill her, but it certainly hurt. The poison drowned her in blood and spit and possibly burnt, oozing flesh. He prayed the latter wasn’t true. He knew, though, that some gasses could do that to victims, and it wasn’t a stretch to think the tea could do that as well. Its properties were unknown to him. He wished he’d interrogated Volux more before he signed up to the venture. Had Elin known what she was going to drink? He prayed she was warned. 

There were no clocks to watch or pretend to read. He stared ahead, his ears pricked for sound. Time crept along like a slinking cat, tentative and wary of anything new. It seemed aware of the going-ons in the adjacent corridor and didn’t wish to be rude and interrupt. If he could have coaxed it into the light, he would have. Let it end, he thought. The lights never flickered.

How long had it been? All he knew were that the Galra in the rooms didn’t even sigh. There were no tears or whimpers. It didn’t surprise him, in a way. The Galra were a military race, after all. After being beside them as friends for so long, though, Keith felt unsettled. The Galra were emotional, hot-tempered, and self-righteous. An attack on one of their own demanded a response, likely one of violence. Instead, their fire had been subsumed to the order and discipline Zarkon demanded. The qualities that Keith suspected the Voice loved-- volatility, passion,  _ action _ \-- were tamed to a hearth. Functional and non-threatening until directed at a target. It turned his wait into something ominous.

The corridor’s door swished open. Two columns of armored Galra marched in, led by Volux. Keith stumbled out of the way, aware that he gaped at the intrusion. “Four to a room,” Volux said. Their light tenor carried thunderous command now, as though Volux had been possessed by a spirit of vengeance. “I will interrogate any who catch your interest.”

Keith’s skin crawled. The Clarion had feared the Druids’ interrogation more than death. Would Volux really torture and interrogate people they knew were innocent? It was a stupid question. Volux would for any sort of ‘greater good’. The Clarion threatened their life and culture. Breaking fingers or attacking someone with quintessence or whatever the Druids did for torture… that was nothing for the greater plan. And here Keith was, off the side, about to let Volux do it. Could he afford to feel superior or indignant? 

He waited in silence as the soldiers fanned out. He knew, no matter their abuses, the Galra inside the rooms would never complain. He tried to imagine Hyladra raging at being shoved or spat at by a superior officer. For all the fire she held in her heart, she believed in Zarkon’s social ordering. Everything the soldiers would do would be for the greater good. 

A soldier loomed over a grim-faced Galra who’d been at the service. She didn’t flinch or cringe back. She met their gaze and gave a respectful nod. It was bravery that Keith admired but felt concerned for. One of the soldiers began to speak, her voice a threatening rumble, but the door closed before he made out the words. 

It left him in the hall with Volux and a lone guard. The guard filled Keith’s former post. Keith tried not to fidget. Instead, he sidled over to Volux. “Master Druid,” he murmured, as though his heart didn’t thunder in his chest. “The woman--”

“Dead,” Volux said. Keith flinched, despite his knowledge of the lie. “We believe someone poisoned her food.” Volux turned to look at Keith. “You realize what this means, temple tender?”

Keith bowed his head. “If you wish to question me, I will tell you all I know.”

A hand landed on his head, stroking his ears. He tried not to jerk away. He couldn’t manage a warm sound; all Volux got was silence. “I trust you will,” Volux said. They removed their hand. Keith’s ears flattened in relief. “Come. There should be another empty room. Iod, allow no one in.”

Iod bowed to Volux, though Volux didn’t acknowledge it. They walked down the hall, their hand partly outstretched. Keith wondered if they sensed the quintessence of those within the rooms. Volux opened a door to an empty room and ushered him in. The door closed behind them. Keith almost expected Volux to lock it, but he was grateful when Volux didn’t. 

It was another office room. It had a holostation, a small table, and two chairs around said table. Keith took the chair with its back to the wall. Volux paced between the door and holostation, their hands clasped behind their back.

Keith tried to wait. He grit his teeth as painful silence needled him. “...Did something go wrong?” Dread pooled in his stomach. She couldn’t be dead. 

Volux shook their head. “It went according to plan. Elin is… injured. Everyone outside our little conspiracy believes her dead. Qore even shed tears and begged the Voice to save her.”

Their words only soothed some of Keith’s worry. “How injured?”

“Do you really want to know?” Volux watched him, mask still in place. “I spared you from witnessing the worst of it.”

“You let Qore watch it first hand,” Keith countered, “so that she wouldn’t doubt Elin’s death. I was sent away so my involvement could be concealed.”

Volux sniffed. “Is this how you’ll treat my kindness?”

“This is how I’ll treat lies for your ego,” Keith snapped. Volux stiffened. “She was drowning in her own fluids. Did she know how bad it would be? Because I certainly didn’t.”

“It wasn’t necessary to tell you.” Volux straightened their back. “You would have had more doubts if you’d known.”

Volux had been unhappy that Keith was going to stick with playing a temple tender. Yet they’d hid information like this for Keith’s sake? He found that hard to believe. He told Volux that.

“Rude,” Volux murmured. “You’re learning, even now. But fine: I removed you from the affair because I doubted your ability to hide your reaction. Your ears are still ridiculously expressive. We’re lucky that the Voice didn’t see fit to bless you with a tail. I may not agree with the risk you’re taking, but I am in no mood to sabotage the work we’ve both done.”

It was blunt enough that Keith could believe it. Volux never minced words. They were always either saying nothing or being brutally honest. They were also right in this instance. His ears did whatever they pleased, and attempts to control them could last only a minute or so. The moment his mind wandered from focusing on his ears, they returned to being expressive. He didn’t always know  _ what _ they were saying, but they were always talking.

“That’s more like you,” Keith said. His lips twitched into smirk before the memory of Elin’s pained whimper echoed in his mind. He felt the blood drain from his face. Volux had pulled him away from an answer as to whether Elin knew what she was going to endure. He’d been so easily distracted, like a child with a butterfly. Simple needling on Keith’s abilities could have him forget the fate of those he’d used for his gain. The guilt in him solved nothing. He tried to smooth his robe before he spoke. “But what of Elin?”

Volux shrugged. “She was informed of the risks. She knew it would be an unpleasant experience. I didn’t think it a good idea to tell her of the minute details. It would only frighten her and make her duty more difficult to bear.”

Keith clenched his hands into fists. “What if she’d said something to us in pain?” Wrong thing to say. He could feel the unbelieving stare of his fellow Paladins when the rescue of Allura had been discussed. “She should have been warned. She did us a great service by going through with this in the first place. She’s strong enough to endure this-- and she’s strong enough to have known what was going to happen and go through it anyway.”

Volux cocked their head to the side, like an inquisitive bird. “Elin of the Wilet no longer matters.” Keith blinked. “Her rank as a soldier-- the highest rank-- will ensure she receives excellent care. She will receive awards and adoration when the truth comes out. Think of her as a martyr, Keirin. Everyone else will.”

Not Hyladra. Her anxiety fuelled his. He sent reassurance over the bond, now that he knew Elin’s fate, but her worry dulled only slightly. Elin was her closest friend-- not a martyr or tool. He nodded, though. Arguing with Volux was rarely productive. “Then what now?”

Volux leaned forward, looming over Keith. “We wait. Qore will contact you for a job well done. I will contact you in a few days. By then, I imagine, Qore will have provided a next step for you.”

“And the poisoned cup--?”

“Will be cleansed and disposed of.” Volux sounded pleased. “Blame will be placed on the food. Whether it was a temple tender, a cook, or an attendee… Well, we won’t know but we will be vigorously investigating until you are able to collapse the Clarion operations aboard Central Command. Then the farce will be ended.”

Keith looked up at Volux. “But not before innocents are tortured in interrogation.”

“I will hardly flay them alive, Keirin.” Keith hated the name. He suspected that’s why Volux used it. “I’ll probe their minds, investigate a few of their secrets, perhaps cause brief illusions of pain so they can sob to their friends about the cruelty of Druids, but I will not give them a traditional interrogation. Their innocence will protect them.”

“It won’t make the memories go away,” Keith said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s only  _ slight _ torture. Not going whole hog and ripping off fingernails isn’t a justification. You’re going to traumatize them and then reveal that it was for the ‘greater good’, making them feel like they have to accept what happened for the Galran hive mind’s preservation.”

“Aren’t you sour today?” Volux took the seat opposite him. “The Galra are not humans.” Keith opened his mouth to snap at that, but Volux ignored him. “Our physiology is not just different, but our minds as well. You know how we see, how we touch, how we smell… Those are the physical things. You know little of how we feel. A Galra will not break from pain. We see the purpose of all trials.”

“Humans can see it too,” Keith said. “Harsh training, exhausting studies, and even enduring evil. But why endure it when it’s not necessary? Take them into custody for the next few days. Let them know what’s happening, but keep them isolated. When this is over, they can be released without having been tortured. Right now, you’re taking the easy way out. With it, you don’t have to trust in me succeeding or their patriotism.”

Volux seemed to contemplate his argument. They didn’t speak, nor did they wave Keith off. “For a man,” Volux finally said, “with such keen moral failings, you certainly castigate others quickly.”

Keith flushed beneath his fur. “There’s doing what’s necessary, and then there’s taking the easy way out.” He breathed in through his nose, trying to calm his thundering heart. Volux’s words stung more than he’d thought they would. “Even when I fuck up, Volux, I can take pride that I didn’t take the easy way out.”

Silence stretched out for a short eternity. Then Volux laughed softly. “Killing is easy.”

“To a Galra, maybe.” Keith sat ramrod straight. “But taking a life is hard for humans.”

Volux eyed him. “Your hesitation in taking lives has been short. How many did you kill in your Lion?” Keith didn’t have a good answer. “The moral weight may have struck you differently than it does a Galra, but you’ve shown a Galran willingness to kill-- even torture-- anyway. My methods aren’t foreign to you. I won’t take the blame for proposing what’s necessary.”

His temples ached. “Fine. You win. Just don’t hurt them. Use my proposal. You’re not wrong for wanting to keep the charade--” it pained him to lie, but it was necessary-- “but you’ll earn more praise and good will by using my method.”

“Will I?” There was something teasing about the words. “Well, I certainly value what others think of me.” The sarcasm was mild, but Keith still winced. “We’ll declare this moot. I will refrain from torture, and you will refrain from your ventures into self-righteous moralizing.”

Did Keith understand the Galra as much as he thought? Volux left him with the thought as they parted-- Volux for interrogation, Keith back to the temple. He’d spent months with the Galra, had a mental bond with one, and existed in the physical form of a Galra. Volux argued that Galra didn’t have the same moral qualms as humans when it came to violence, and Keith agreed. But the extremity of Volux’s assertion unnerved him. 

In Volux’s view, the Galra could take more stress and violence than a human could. They viewed enduring misery differently, to the point where they could shrug off torture. Yet he remembered Adran’s fear of the Druids. He remembered Adran’s terror and pain as Keith tortured him. The Galran endurance that Volux praised didn’t exist. If a Druid tortured Hyladra, she’d be scared and scarred. 

Keith had looked into the eyes of too many suffering Galra to think otherwise. Maybe they could take more than a human physically, but their minds were only as stubborn as they’d been trained to be. The Galra, as a race, were trained for danger, obedience, and stoicism. It was like those at the Garrison: a cadet or graduate would take the poison, just like a trained Galra would. A civilian on Earth would hesitate, though, because they hadn’t been trained for the mindset of the greater good meaning more than personal suffering.

Was his behaviour Galran or human? Keith would label it both. He behaved as the Galra did because he’d imbibed a similar ideology as a human soldier, albeit one that was less extreme and totalitarian. The greater good, protecting the innocent, and trying to do as little harm as possible were three mantras that existed in constant discord. Whenever he served one principle, another was violated. It was for the greater good that he hurt Adran for the information. But that involved torturing him which led to killing him to save him from the Druids, once again for doing as little harm as possible. 

Were they weak justifications? Likely. It was no worse than what Volux did. They declared their species beyond conventional morality. What was Galran philosophy like? There was no question  that it’d support Zarkon, but there was more to it than that. Was it utilitarian? Was it a personal morality? The Galra were collectivist in outlook, but what did happiness mean to the Galra? Maybe it was utilitarian in the sense of the greatest happiness for Zarkon and the Voice. That would be foreign to modern humans. Not unfathomable but difficult to comprehend. 

The books he’d read had been interesting. The Captain of Thorns was a classic according to Zarkon and Hyladra. Its morality had been for the greater good. The good had been for the betterment of the Empire, which only sometimes included its citizens. The main character, the captain, had invaded strange planets in the name of Zarkon’s glory and harvested the resources for the citizens. Deals could have been made. Even the Captain of Thorns acknowledged that. But deals shamed the Emperor when force could solve the problem. 

The moral discussion made his head hurt. It mattered, he knew, but judging by Hyladra’s insistent prodding, the thoughts were causing quite a bit of anxiety. He couldn’t tell: confusion and faint panic had numbed him to his own emotions. 

The temple’s halls were empty. He kept searching for people, but the dimness of the halls revealed nothing. Maybe they knew what’d happened. He imagined them gathering for an impromptu prayer for Elin’s soul. On impulse, he opened a door here and there, desperate for company. Nobody was there. 

He even visited the Druids’ office and found it empty. “Where the fuck,” he hissed to himself. It wasn’t time for a service yet, but he checked the main room. Pitchers, pillows, and plush little blankets were set perfectly against the stage’s backdrop. Yet there were no people arranging and no Druids preparing for the ceremony. 

Maybe they’d been taken for interrogation. Or they’d been evacuated: If Volux had allowed the idea that it was a Clarion attack take root, evacuation would make… slight sense. “Master Friv?” he called out. “Uh. Anyone?”

A door opened far down the hall. Ravus peered out from inside. His hushed voice echoed. “In here.” Ravus glanced up and down the hall. “Before anyone sees.”

There wasn’t anyone about, but Ravus’ face strained under paranoia. Was he feeling the pressure of people hunting for Clarion agents? Still, Keith jogged to the door, slipped in, and closed it behind him. Ravus and Qore were in the room, facing away from him. Unease gripped his stomach. Did they know it was faked? He kept his back pressed against the door. How trained were either of them in combat? Could he fight well in his new form?

“What’s going on?” he finally asked as Ravus and Qore passed something between themselves. 

Qore turned to face him, her eyes glinting. “You did it,” she breathed. A smile wide and gleaming spread over her face. “The Wilet traitor is dead.”

Keith kept his expression neutral. “And the Druid seems to think it was an attendee. Have they said anything to you otherwise?”

“No,” Qore said. “They asked what I saw and if I knew anything about the Wilet. They knew it was the Clarion, but we have little to fear.” Qore stepped closer, her hand lifting. Almost by instinct, Keith prepared for a handshake. When her hand landed on his shoulder, he tried not to flinch as her claws brushed against his robe. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Keirin, but you’ve heralded the uncrowning.”

Was he supposed to know what the uncrowning meant? Or was he supposed to ask? Hyladra prodded at him, though for what, he didn’t know. “I would do anything for the Clarion,” he said. It was a soulless statement. He didn’t know how to spruce it up, though. “What now?”

Qore’s smile turned smug. “We wait.” Keith tried not to look too strained at the prospect, but the expression came through, making Qore laugh. “Not months or weeks, Keirin. Hours.” She nodded at Ravus. “An unknown,” and she purred that word, unknown, as she looked at Ravus, “delivered a threat to the temple at the same time the Wilet died. Temple tenders were evacuated.”

“And you two snuck back in?”

Qore shook her head. “I volunteered to gather the important belongings in the temple and bring them to safety. Ravus is here to defend me. For the next few hours, the temple belongs to the Clarion. And after we leave, the temple will be a husk of what it once was.”

Keith’s stomach tightened. “You’re not talking about vandalism. You’re saying something more.”

“Vandalism is simple,” Qore said. “A child can do it. What we are going to do, Keirin, is defile the temple and prepare it for the uncrowning.” Keith’s cheek twitched. Again, that hollow laugh haunted him. “You don’t know what it is yet, but I promise it will be worth the wait.”

Keith nodded. He hated having to do it: if he had his way, he’d walk away. But he was this far, and while he knew there’d be a scandal after this, he’d deal with it later. Volux, Keith suspected, would find it all funny. He hoped. He knew the others would be horrified, even those like Kymin whose trust in the Voice was questionable. 

When Qore and Ravus marched him to the temple’s main room, a part of him panicked. They could so easily slip a knife into his back, yet he couldn’t even show the slightest bit of fear. Qore chatted as they walked. “The soldiers are concentrated by the entrances,” she said. 

Keith hadn’t seen a single one on his way to the temple. He didn’t tell her that. Maybe the commander of the temple section knew what was happening and saw no point in wasting soldiers guarding an area Zarkon had already willingly forfeit. Or they’d seen Keith, recognized him, and decided not to stop him. He was surprised that Friv hadn’t sent someone to intercept him, though. Maybe she had bigger problems-- she would if any of the temple tenders were being questioned. 

His head ached some more. Did he lie and say he saw them, or was this a test to see if he was lying? The soldiers might be dead already, their bodies hidden in closets and isolated rooms. “I took a side entrance,” Keith decided. “Didn’t see them. Do you think they’ll check on you and Ravus?”

Qore laughed. “They’re dead,” she said. Keith’s heart stopped. “I was simply wondering if they’d replaced them yet.”

“And what if their commander checks in on them?” How had Ravus and Qore overpowered them? Had it been the element of surprise?

“Clarion agents have taken over their communications.” Qore pulled up to his side, her stride casual and smug. “While it isn’t an ideal long-term solution, it only needs to continue for a little bit. With the soldiers dead, the uncrowning can commence.”

People were going to come to the temple, then-- Clarion people. There was little other reason to murder all the soldiers unless they posed a risk beyond asking a few questions if they ever checked up on Qore and Ravus. Keith nodded along to what Qore said, but all he could imagine were horror film-esque visions of Hollywood Satanists defiling churches and then holding their rituals inside. He liked to think the Clarion, while murderous, were less grotesque, but what did he know? All he knew were the attempts on his life, the fanaticism, and what they’d done to people like Hyladra.

“Where do we start with the defiling?” Keith asked. He didn’t really want to know. 

Qore hummed to herself for a moment. “The stage. Leave the comforts be. If we’re to truly celebrate victory, we can do it sprawled over pillows and covered in blankets.”

She led him and Ravus to the stage. “Tear down the curtains,” she told Ravus. “Keirin, there should be rain vessels in behind the backdrop. Bring them out.”

The rain vessels were the shimmery amphoras that Keith had marveled at. There were a series of five, all of which were lined up so that they got progressively larger and larger. The ones typically used for service were middling-- a few feet high at most. But the largest was half Keith’s height. Inside, the mysterious space-black liquid waited. It doubled the weight of each amphora easily. He grunted and wheezed as he hauled them to the stage. Qore ignored them as they slowly lined up; her claws were working on the curtains, carefully ripping them in quick, elegant motions, like some sort of malicious cat. Ravus, at the other end of the curtains, stripped them from their rods. 

“It stinks in here,” Qore commented as KEith dragged out the third amphora. “Friv has the worst taste in incense.” She released the tattered section of curtain. Incense was scattered throughout the room: they weren’t clumped together, but instead were placed in three-stick bundles that were arranged so as one bundle for every three tables. Qore went to the edge of the stage and leaned over, as though scrutinizing the incenses’ layout. “We should replace it. Choking the others to death through smoke and flowers is an unkindness I do not wish to commit. Ravus!”

Ravus froze. He balanced on the tip of a stool, his arms outstretched to pull at the curtains. “Yes?” he managed, though he wobbled every time he breathed.

“Change the incense to-- hm.” A finger tapped at her chin. Keith wandered behind the stage drop for another amphora, but he heard her next words. “Something victorious. Perhaps Jyn Root and Kwo bark?”

“I’ll find it,” Ravus said. Keith winced as Ravus stumbled off. He heard the Galra swear, as though his foot had got stuck in something or he’d struck his shin against the stool. “Keirin! You have any requests?”

“No,” Qore said. “He doesn’t. Get the incense, Ravus.”

Ravus was slinking off when Keith dragged the fourth amphora out. He wondered how much Ravus resented Qore: even in victory, she chastised him like a cold parent would a child. The only way it mattered, though, was if he could turn Ravus against Qore. There was no opportunity for it, though, nor a point to doing it. So he simply took note of the matter as he shuffled along, his hand’s gripping the amphora’s handles for dear life. 

“Try not to hurt yourself,” Qore said. Keith didn’t laugh: he let out a wheezing sound through his nose. Qore grinned at him, as though reading it as a stifled laugh. She ran her hands down the gilded border of the curtains. Her nails were stained gold. “Do you know what’s inside the rain vessels?”

“A liquid,” Keith said, “that smells quite pleasant. Other than that, no. Do you?”

Qore’s nails matched her eyes, both in colour and quick menace. “I know what’s said about it. I was told, as a child, that it came from the springs where the Voice dwells. In secret, as a temple-tender, I was told that it came from the Ashwastes, harvested from the runoff of a deep mine in the Blackglass Mountain. I see no reason for them to contradict each other.” She abandoned the curtains to lean over the second tallest amphora. “Yet many think they  _ would _ be anathema to each other. As though the Ashwastes are unholy, belonging to the old, abandoned ways.”

“There is a certain obsession with maligning your people,” Keith grunted out as he dragged the last, tallest amphora the final few feet to the row. “It is easy to spit poison about a people who can rarely fight back.”

“So very rarely,” she murmured. “We are not dim, you understand. But what we value is different than what most other Galra do. An Ashwaster leaving their family is… hard. Our traditions make it so. Standard Galran is so different from what we speak as well. Attempts from Zarkon’s brutes to ‘improve’ our lot ignore that. Yet so many Ashwasters are  _ grateful _ for the scraps we get. The capital sends teachers with impeccable Sonatan-accented Galran who then struggle to understand our dialect. Our medical traditions are maligned, many of them made illegal.”

What was the other side of the story? What would Zarkon or Thace say? Were the medical traditions things like herbal medicine, or was Qore talking of more questionable practices like faith healing? Keith couldn’t disagree with the outlawing of practices that killed people. He could easily imagine Zarkon’s outrage at knowing his people, instead of going to doctors when they got cancer, going to old way mystics who’d ‘cure’ their disease for a fee. And if he was honest, he couldn’t imagine Zarkon disdaining herbal medicines that helped the Galra. For all the man’s flaws-- and there were many-- looking down his nose at lower-ranked Galra was not one of them, nor did Zarkon struggle with basic logic. If Ashwaster medicine would cure ailments, it would be promulgated throughout the Empire. 

But maybe his agents were less accepting. Perhaps there were governors who reigned terror upon Ashwasters, supported by the less clear-minded Galra in the capital and army. It disturbed him on many levels that, in this scenario, he’d framed Zarkon as an enlightened ruler foiled by the darkness in the hearts of his people. His head ached. 

“The Empire has been full of injustices,” Keith said. Qore nodded along, her eyes wide. “It demands that people abandon their homes to join the military courts of Zarkon.” It reeked of falseness, but Qore’s expression didn’t change. “Your people are forced to abandon your culture for rewards and power to help your people, or remain in the Ashwastes, poor and trodden upon.” Fake, fake, fake, he thought. But Qore beamed at him, as though she’d found a kindred soul.

“Leaving my family,” she said, her smile dimming, “was the hardest thing I ever did, Keirin. I left for money, at first. Our family was so big, we could barely afford to feed everyone. The Empire tried to help, but they didn’t care that the food they provided made us sick.” Her nose crinkled. “Strange vegetables, odder liquids, and sour meats… They don’t belong in an Ashwaster’s stomach. We suffered through it, but I saw that I could help more if I left. I could send money back and they’d have one less mouth to feed.”

“And so you joined the temple tenders,” Keith said as he stepped up beside her. “And from there, you met the Clarion.”

“I did. And they understood why I hated the Empire, more than most of my own people do.” Qore ran a fingerpad over the amphora’s glass lip. It made a warbling ring. She stopped at the dip in the lip, where the liquid would flow free the easiest. “They took this from us. Water-- so rare on Gal-- and they pillaged it from our springs, hid its origins, and then wasted it in rites that the Voice never wanted anyway.”

He wanted to ask how she knew that for certain, but he nodded along instead. “Is the sand from the Ashwastes as well?”

Qore shrugged. “That is less talked about. I suspect it’s what causes the smoke, but I’ve yet to divine its origins.” She abandoned her amphora for a smaller one. “We’ll destroy the sand later. But for now…” She gripped the amphora’s lip and yanked. The amphora wobbled; Qore’s arm strained to move the vessel. Liquid ebbed and flowed inside. When the waves turned violent, on the third push, their force helped Qore. The amphora fell to the ground. Chunks shattered: its thick glass proved too strong for gravity. The liquid gushed out, though, and while the smell of a rainy autumn day filled his nostrils, no smoke gusted up. It had to be from the sand, then.

Qore smiled down at the amphora, her expression grim. “You can have tallest, Keirin. Take it as a gift for your work.”

The damp wooden stage creaked under his feet. The amphora was cold against his pads, despite the temple’s heat. Droplets of the liquid had flecked against his fur when he moved the amphoras. Now, he gripped the amphora’s handles and pushed. His arm muscles tensed. It took pushing from his legs to tip it over. More void-black liquid spilled over the warm, reddish-brown wood. Chunks of a glass aurora speckled the liquid, like little stars. His skin crawled. It felt wrong, almost sacrilegious. It wasn’t just water that he wasted. It was like pouring holy water into a sewer. He didn’t need to be a faithful worshipper to feel unsettled by it. 

Qore laughed, joyful and hearty. They took turns tipping over the amphoras. Each fallen one increased the spread of of their liquid galaxy. His shoes soon began to sop up the liquid, dyeing them an ominous black. He winced as he walked. Did shards of the amphoras line the bottoms of his shoes? The black liquid wasn’t too sticky, but it was more than just water. It was thicker, smelled different, and had a paint-like adhesiveness. The longer he walked on the stage, the more he doubted Qore’s story. Unless the amphora liquid was mixed with other things, he didn’t see how the liquid came from a simple volcanic spring, even one touched by the Voice. Unless the Voice excreted something horrendous that mixed with the spring water. But then Qore’s attitude would change. Spoiled water wasn’t valuable, and thus there was nothing to feel slighted by when it was used for other purposes. It had to start out as normal water and then end up tainted. Or blessed, if one was sympathetic to the Druids and Zarkon. 

Qore didn’t comment on the liquid. She pushed shards of the amphoras around with her covered feet, her brow furrowed as she contemplated her assumed victory. A door opened deep into the audience seats; Ravus slipped in, a bundle of incense hooked over his shoulder. “He’ll need help,” Qore said. “Keirin, I leave the task to you. I have to attend to other business.” 

It wasn’t the ideal task. He went to Ravus, collected incense, and began to edge along the side of the room, replacing lightly charred sticks with thin, white, chalky rods. Jyn root and Kwo bark were sweet smelling yet salty, like seaweed on the beach. The oppressive smoke and heat of the temple began to fade as fresh air sparked forth from the new incense. Keith tried not to breathe it too deeply: every breath already made him ache for Earth, or even simple land. 

When Qore returned from behind the stage, she wheeled out a large trolley. Keith stopped mid-replacement of a blackened stick of incense. “What,” he asked without thinking, “is  _ that _ ?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ravus shrugged. Qore, standing on her tip-toes, barely reached mid-chest with the trolley. Steel, yellow cloth, and heavy rivets created a square bin with the cloth holding something dark and solid. 

“It’s the dust of life,” Qore said, and Keith figured that he had to add mental capitals to it. “The Dust of Life is what the liquid is poured into.” She jabbed a foot into the yellow bin’s side. He heard the sand squish against itself. “I saw it when Volux was arranging the final parts of the service.” Her usual smile sharpened. “It is time to put out the lights in this temple.”

“Using the Dust?” Keith asked. He eyed it. “Are you referring to the furnace system or are we talking about the fires through the temple.”

“Both.”

And both it was. Dust was scooped into their now-empty incense bags. Ravus was sent to the eastern part of the temple; Keith, to the west. Embers, roaring fires, and their flickering cinders were snuffed through copious amounts of black sand. Qore, meanwhile, wheeled the trolley to the very heart of the temple: the specialized furnace that heated it. For all the damage it would cause, part of Keith was grateful. Even after being in a desert for two years, the temple was too hot for him. On a good day, it was a pleasant bake; on a bad day, it was a broil. 

Volux would string him up for this later, he thought. It’d be quick, vicious, and inelegant. He’d say one word that admitted guilt for his involvement, and Volux would reach over and throttle him. Whatever Volux’s issues, the temple was their abode. It was their kingdom. And here Keith was, piling heavy sand into complex bonfire arrangements It occurred to him that it’d be easier to repair the furnace than it would all the little fires he and Ravus destroyed. 

When his bag ran empty, there were still two fires left. Guilt urged him to leave them be, but thoroughness demanded he put them out and ruin the setup by hand. “Why,” Keith hissed to himself as he knelt down. It took raiding cupboards for a metal lid. He snuffed out the fire and scratched at the carefully arranged wood and coals until they were a chaotic lump. 

As he did this-- playing the grim reaper of fire-- he reached out to Hyladra. Away from Qore, his expression could turn vacant as he tried to communicate. If he’d done it in her presence, he knew she’d comment. Worse, she might even suspect him of harbouring doubts. He didn’t know how that would end, but he didn’t want to risk her reacting badly.

Hyladra was distant. There were a hundred things warring for her attention, and Keith’s presence likely wasn’t recognized among the din. As he prodded at a smoldering log, he added a hint of claws to his mind.  _ Pay attention to me _ , he thought.  _ People depend on it.  _ **_Elin_ ** _ depends on it. _

She was talking to someone, though. Someone important. Was it Elin herself, already awake from what she’d experienced? Or was she talking to Volux or a witness to what had happened? Her fear clouded any other emotions. Keith tried to gather warmth in himself. He could send it to Hyladra and earn her attention, and then he could deliver even worse news.

There wasn’t anything, though. Just exhaustion, a deadened sense of fear, and a jolting sense of anxiety that people were going to die. “Fuck,” he hissed. The smouldering log was pushed to the other side of the fire pit. Flecks of cinders puffed up at each solid prod. Maybe, he thought, if he had nothing good to give, he could the bad.

He’d done it before. He’d moulded fear into a solid ball of negativity, wrapped it in anxiety, and greased it with exhaustion. Hyladra had paid attention to that. He knew it’d hurt her to feel and it hurt to assemble, but he didn’t have a choice. 

The thoughts were hard to put together. His fear took the form of the falling amphora and the picture of the void they’d made of the stage. He coated that not-yet-only-a-memory in the vision of Qore on the stage, her fierce and threatening grin filling the spotlight. Then he added his grim march through the temple, putting out fires and chilling the temple like a winter wind. 

When he sent it, pushing it down their bond with a shove, he felt her thoughts skip a beat. Her attention swerved away from whoever she spoke to. She reached out to him, scared. He tried not to feel terrible. It was a necessary thing. Yet now he had to soothe her while trying to communicate  _ worse  _ information.

The Clarion were coming to the temple. Qore defiled it as they waited. The guards around the temple were dead. How did he tell her all that? He didn’t know the symbol of the Clarion, if they even had one. Did they wear certain colours? Did they have an infamous song or motto? He didn’t know, and he should have asked. Volux and Thace had never mentioned one, though. 

The only symbol of the Clarion that Hyladra would recognize was the memory he’d seen. She’d been in the building when a video from the Clarion had played and bombs had gone off. The details, for Keith, were fuzzy now. Too much had happened for him to remember the video clearly. What he did remember, though, was the gymnasium and the oppressive dark of being buried alive. Could he really send that, though? He’d never spoken to her about it, not in depth. He’d been too afraid of making it a worse memory, or harming their friendship. 

He dug his claws into his legs. The robes dulled the sharpest tips but the pain distracted him from his worries. He’d done what was necessary before. Hyladra would understand, he told himself for what felt like the two dozenth time. He breathed through his nose, slow and deliberate. He needed to construct a memory that she could decipher, using parts of her own trauma. This is fine, he thought. Everything was just fine. 

He started with the temple’s main room. It grew in size, but the pillows, tables, and pitchers were so familiar that it carried the meaning perfectly. High above, a screen played. What had been on the screen for the Clarion’s message? He squinted at the dead fire in front of him. There’d been a mask, he thought. Maybe inverse of the Druids’? Maybe. The memory had been too chaotic and sudden and coated in terror. Even remembering it made him shudder. Hyladra had believed, fully and wholly, that she was going to die.

He skipped the mask. Instead, he left it white, a canvas through which she could project the symbol of the Clarion. He filled the room, in his mind, with those Galra he knew. Volux. Thace. Kymin. Joyn. They were in neat little rows, their faces blank. At the front, below the blank, white screen, Elin lay dead. In the shadows around her, armored Galra raised their rifles, aiming for each of waiting, watching Galra below the stage. Around their feet, shattered amphora and black liquid licked at their feet. Scattered over the remains of the temple’s holiness, dead guards lay, their forms darkened.

He tied to it dread. _They’re coming_. _The guards are dead._ _Tell Volux, tell Thace, tell Zarkon, tell anyone who will listen because they’re coming and the temple has fallen._ The words wouldn’t make it through the connection. The sentiment would. 

Sheer, raw, sharp pain stabbed into his heart as the false memory made its way down the bond. She knew, and Keith tasted ash. He stood from his crouch. He took the walk back to the temple’s main room slowly. Hyladra’s emotions went from pain, to panic, then to a steely coldness that reeked of  _ purpose _ . She was going to tell someone. She was going to do what she hadn’t been able to do the first time the Clarion attacked.

She was going to fight back.

When Keith returned to the main room, sterile white lights illuminated the destruction inside. It was cold and barren. Qore waited on the stage, among the black. The reddish-brown backdrop was gone, revealing a black wall. Against it, her now white robes shone. “They’re almost here,” she told him. “Come to the stage. You’ve earned your place.” She smiled. “Let them see their herald, Keirin.”

In the distance, he heard voices and thundering footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update's on the 10th! Thank you all for reading, and thank you for the really kind reviews on the last chapter. <333 I hope you enjoyed this one too!
> 
> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	32. Chapter 32

The doors opened. Keith heard the arrivals-- he didn’t see them, as he instead climbed the stage’s smooth incline to the wood. Qore watched him, smiling, before she turned to look at the group. “You don’t need the masks here,” she declared to them. “The cameras are out, and the guards are dead.”

When he turned around, dozens of Clarion, all with inverted Druid masks, watched them. Their uniforms were the clothes of average Galran officers and staff. At the head of each group by the two main doors, lone Galra led the way. One wore a janitorial outfit-- more respected among the Galra than on Earth, largely because it involved droid operations. The other was a medical professional, judging by the markings on their uniform’s sleeve. The janitorial Clarion spoke. “Masks will remain,” she said. “Zarkon and his court are still alive, Qore. Keep that in mind when you bare your face to us all.”

Qore flinched. Her outstretched arms fell to her sides. “I apologize,” she said as her head bowed. Keith tried not to squirm in second-hand embarrassment. She didn’t leave to put on a mask, though, and the Clarion continued to flow into the room. The janitorial Clarion and the medical Clarion joined them on the stage.

The janitorial Clarion leaned in to Keith. She sniffed him and hummed. Keith wondered what she smelled-- maybe the smoke and ash of the fires he’d dealt with. “What is your name?” the woman asked.

“Keirin,” Keith said. “I am from the colonies--”

“As am I,” the woman said. “Call me Manec.” She nodded at the medical Clarion. “He is Talen.”

Keith gave slow, deliberate nods at each of them. “It is an honour.” He doubted those were their real names, not after Manec’s scolding about going mask-less. “I apologize for a lack of a mask--”

“I don’t expect you to have one.” Manec reached up and tapped the chin of her mask. “It’s hardly like you could have brought it to Central Command.”

Below the stage, Clarion took up posts throughout the room. They curled on the layers of pillows. Some indulged in the water pitchers. It was a parody of a typical service. Except now, Keith had become a Druid, maskless and much less mysterious. Unease filled him. He tried to reach out with his mind to Hyladra. 

The bond was silent. He couldn’t sense Hyladra. Maybe it was because his mind couldn’t focus. Maybe she was too focused on her task. He knew that, if she was injured, he’d feel something. He didn’t know what he’d feel if she was dead. Was the uncrowning already happening? Had it happened while he’d walked back to the main room? Beside the Clarion, deep in the bowels of Central Command, the entire universe could have vanished and he’d never know. 

It left him to smile and play his part. “Should I fetch anything for the coming ceremony?” Keith asked. He wasn’t sure who he’d directed it at, but he desperately wanted off the stage. “I wasn’t aware the uncrowning would be so... elaborate.”

Qore came up behind him, as though desperate to be part of any conversation. He suspected she craved Manec and Talen’s approval. Qore didn’t say anything, but she listened. It left Manec to answer. “Your ears say everything you’re thinking,” Manec said with a small laugh. “You’re terrified of the spotlight, aren’t you? There’s nothing for you to fetch so you can flee. Enjoy your work, herald of the uncrowning. Without you, none of this would have been possible.” She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. He tried to freeze his ears in place. Still, they twitched at the touch. “Do not shun glory.”

“My part was small,” Keith said. “Those here have worked on Central Command for years, and I only came a few weeks ago.”

“Yet your role was vital.” Manec pulled back. “At this moment, Zarkon and his believers meet in his throne room, desperate to figure out who has turned against him. A dead Wilet, for all his claims of rank no longer mattering, will cause reverberations throughout the Empire. If he can’t protect a Wilet, who can he protect?”

Keith’s heart sunk. This was the uncrowning, then. Zarkon’s reign had been challenged, and most of the Empire’s brass was in a single room, desperately searching for the traitor. Zarkon knew the truth, though. Keith had infiltrated the Clarion, faked Elin’s death, and was digging for information. Zarkon wouldn’t be concerned, but he had to put up a front that he was. Everyone thought a Wilet had died-- whatever a Wilet was, besides a high ranked Galra. Did Zarkon know that the Clarion had gathered in the temple yet? Did he have reason to be concerned that something might happen to him?

“And his throne room,” Keith asked. “Is it going to be attacked? Will his reign finally end?”

He couldn’t see if Manec smiled. All he saw were her twitching ears. She was happy, he thought. Fear clenched his heart. If Zarkon died, Keith would be stuck in the lie he’d told. The Clarion would shower him with praise and keep him under close watch. It’d be just as difficult to escape, except that every Galra would be looking for him, both the loyalists and Clarion, and Keith would still be stuck in a Galran form. Zarkon would hardly inconvenience himself to help Keith, but at least there was a modicum of understanding between them. The Clarion weren’t even unknowns: they’d kill Keith if they knew his truth. 

Manec never replied. Instead, as chairs were brought out, she whispered to other janitorial Clarion. Light bloomed behind Keith; when he turned around, a screen filled covered the back-drop’s wall. It was white and waited for whatever message the Clarion wished to send. Hyladra’s memory cut through the fog that threatened to dull his senses. This was another attack, one directed at every Zarkon loyalist. He needed to do his best to stall, distract, and trick the Clarion while Hyladra-- he hoped, he prayed-- made it to someone who could stop whatever the Clarion planned to do to Zarkon’s throne room and the Galra inside it. 

He sat lightly on an offered chair. He tried to make it look elegant, and not like he was ready to bolt. Qore sat beside him. She rested a hand on his leg. When he glanced at her, she smiled. He didn’t know how to read the warmth to that smile. Was it friendliness? Attraction? Or was she simply grateful to have made a temporary alliance with the supposed ‘herald’? He didn’t shake her hand off. He gave a thin smile before he turned his head back to stare at the masked audience. 

Manec took centre stage. Talen waited to the side, a gun at their waist. Clarion members whispered. The signal to listen hadn’t been given. What would the signal be, though? Would Manec call out to them? She didn’t strike him as someone who’d shout people into paying attention, though. Her straight back, tilted up chin, and neat clothes declared her superiority and, well… snootiness. She reminded him of a less moral and more unpleasant Allura. 

The memory of Allura was a punch to the gut. He missed her. When he’d worked with her, he’d always had the confidence that she, while not necessarily knowing exactly what she was doing, had a rough approximation. It was more than what Keith frequently had. The comfort of that guidance was unfair. However long Alteans lived and however old Allura was, she struck him as mentally around 20, his own age. Expecting her to lead Voltron demanded a lot from her. While Shiro helped, he was only 24. None of them, barring Coran, were truly old enough to lead a war. 24 was barely out of college. Generals, on Earth, had decades of experience. And even they fucked up.

Manec sat like she’d never made a mistake in her life. There was no guilt weighing down her shoulders. Keith, if he was honest, aspired to that level of not caring. As it was, he lived in a perpetual state of borderline panic, strangled by an obsessive need to complete an ever-changing definition of duty. 

When Manec stood, silence filled the room. The masks revealed no features and hid their eyes, but they faced her. Keith tried to count the masks. He gave up after the first quarter of the room. There had to be a hundred Clarion in the temple. They wore uniforms from every department, even command officers. Yet they bowed their heads to Manec. Keith wondered what her rank was socially. Was she, by tradition, someone to follow yet whose inability or misfortune had brought them to being a janitor? He could see someone being angry about that. Rich people on Earth who amounted to little or nothing were bitter. If they were given a blood and religious reason to be angry at the perceived injustice, it was easy to see how someone might start heading down more than simple foulness of the personality. 

Manec surveyed the crowd. “We are here,” she said, her voice echoing, “for the uncrowning.” She paused. A cheer rose from the crowd; some Galra yowled, the sound eerily reminiscent of a coyote’s howl. It echoed. The closed halls kept the sound contained, which worsened the undulating sound. Keith felt his ears twitch. Manec laughed as the crowd quieted. “It is everything we have hoped for. The false emperor will die. His jesters and judges will die. In one moment, the Empire’s cleansing will begin.” The raw joy in her words shook Keith’s faith. If Hyladra didn’t get the throne room evacuated soon, Galra--  _ people _ \-- were going to die. How could he buy her time? “And here, in front of us, are those who made it possible.”

She motioned at Keith and Qore and turned with the motion to face them. “Qore of the Ashen. A simple miner whose faith in this world’s true order spurred her on to help. And Keirin of the Tuvani, a temple tender who has seen through the Druids’ lies and Zarkon’s greed. She is our messenger; Keirin is our herald. Together, they killed the Wilet while we worked to create Zarkon’s end.”

Qore bowed her head to the crowd. Keith bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin. Another cheer, and Keith felt his expression wobble. Manec motioned at Qore who eagerly took centre stage. Manec stood beside Keith, her hand replacing Qore’s though it instead landed on his shoulder. He forced his ears to remain perked up.

“I was born,” Qore said, “below the sands. My people’s homes are built deep into the Blackglass. Its lava, bubbling and boiling, fuels our lives. In our veins and in our homes. We are nothing without the mountain.” Qore’s hands turned to fists. “The false emperor would have us forsake it. We were meant to work; we were meant to honour Blackglass, but Zarkon prefers to pull us from the earth, into his tangled politics and stranger ideas.”

This wasn’t what she’d told him. It struck him, then, that she was lying to the Clarion. Not as an agent of Zarkon-- she was nothing like Keith-- but as her own personal agent. She sold her membership to the Clarion as a yearning for old ways. The reality was something between liberation and preservation. She wanted a better world for Ashwasters, and Zarkon’s efforts had failed. The Clarion were something new, and as a messenger, she could help control what the Clarion did to her people. It was cunning. It was also risky, especially since she’d told Keith the truth in her own way. Though perhaps she’d been certain he’d say nothing: ‘Keirin’ came from a lower rank too, and even if he told Manec what Qore said, he had no proof of Qore’s plotting. Or if Manec would care much. She struck him as a person who cared more for function over ideological purity. 

“The Clarion have given me a chance to defend my people’s ways.” Keith suspected her lack of mask served a purpose. Her achingly honest face displayed every emotion she needed the Clarion to see. He wondered if, by not wearing the mask, she made herself the face of the Clarion. She was going to be who people remembered when this ended.  

Unless Keith got in the way. He tried to think of something-- anything-- that’d delay the Clarion from signalling the end of Zarkon’s reign. Unless the uncrowning had already happened. If it had, delaying did little. But he’d always got a sense from the Clarion he’d met that a flair for the dramatic ran deep in their minds. Not having Zarkon and his subordinates die at their cue would be an affront to the Clarion. 

Which left Keith back at the start: what could he do to delay the attack? A long speech would help. He wasn’t good at it, but he could ramble and choke down his embarrassment for the greater good. But they’d cut him off eventually. He needed to make it something that the Clarion wouldn’t dare stop. 

Qore kept speaking. He wasn’t listening. There was an  _ idea _ , but it wasn’t an idea he liked. So he tried to think of something else. He could make a show of thanking Manec, Qore, and Talen for giving him the opportunity to ‘prove’ his loyalty. He could lead a fake blessing. The first would end quickly; the latter might even offend, as the blessings were often tied deeply to the Druids. A sardonic part of his brain offered acrobatic juggling and he tried not to sigh. His embarrassment didn’t matter, in the end. If the Clarion succeeded, he’d have to flee or die trying. If they failed, every Clarion in the room would be dead by the end of the week.

“In a land,” Qore continued, unaware of Keith’s struggle, “with a people for every valley, Zarkon demands we become one. Like the ridges and lines on stone, we are many-- but under his rule, we become smoothed to nothing. All of us will be middling-ranked Sonatan Galra. We will speak the same. We will love the same. We will return to homes designed by committees and experts. I will never sleep at the Blackglass Mountains, curled against walls warmed by the molten heart of the volcano. Keirin will never sleep beneath the desert sun, far beneath the ground.”

Keith turned his head away, partly to mime sadness but also to prevent anyone from reading his expression. More whispers filled the room. Manec’s hand on his shoulder stroked him twice before she returned to her statue-like countenance. Qore stepped towards him. Her light shoes brushed against the wooden floor. “You will never have to leave your ways,” she told him gently. “Neither of us will. When the Clarion rule, our ranks will be respected. Never will we be asked to do things beyond us.” Keith looked over at her in time to see Qore’s gaze drift to Manec. “From the bottom, our betters will rise, and we will be granted reprieve from the difficulties of rule. This is what the Galra were meant to be. This is what the Voice truly wants for us.”

The Voice wanted supplicants, worship, and quintessence. Keith doubted she cared too much about where those things came from. She’d reached out to him, after all. She’d proclaimed his parents and their parents as part of her Chorus. And Keith knew, with a certainty that went to his marrow, that his parents had been human. She came for him because he’d gone to services, used quintessence, and was surrounded by Galra. She saw every being in the universe as  _ hers _ . Quintessence was quintessence, after all. 

Keith nodded, though, and smiled weakly. “I dreamed of it,” he said. “It still isn’t real to my heart yet.” Qore touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He forced his cheek not to twitch. 

“It will be as I say,” she murmured. Was this done to reassure the audience of high-ranked Galra that the low-ranked Galra wanted this? To assuage any doubts that lingered? It was a skilled show, Keith thought. A blatant lie dressed in finery and paraded about. Hyladra would be furious if she was forced into astrology. Thace’s role as an officer would be obliterated. As an adult, he’d be forced into temple-tending. Keith could imagine even Kymin’s queasiness. Kymin was a Yexin, but he’d surrounded himself with Galra from every rank. What kind of guilt would Kymin feel as he watched his former friends removed from their positions and forced back to Gal? 

And all of it would be done in the Voice’s name, despite the fact that she was brought by their enemy, Zarkon, to their culture and had helped him remake Gal. Zarkon’s propaganda had worked too well in some areas. The Galra were convinced that the Voice was  _ theirs _ , had always been meant to be, and that it was Zarkon’s fault that she allowed-- or wanted-- something different than the old order. 

Keith bowed his head in a slow, deliberate nod to Qore. When she took her seat, Manec motioned to him. “Our herald who destroyed the traitorous and weak Wilet.” Manec offered her hand to help him stand, as though he were weak and delicate. “Speak to us, Keirin. Tell us what brought you to us. Tell us what the Voice has told you-- for She has taken you into her Chorus and whispered Her secrets to you, has she not?”

Of course the Clarion would know about what had happened. He smiled as he stood. “She has,” he said. “She must have seen my loyalties to the Clarion and decided she needed to speak to me. The honour belongs to all of us: she told me I was hers, and that she knew what we wanted to do.” Keith looked at the crowd. There was nothing to read from their expressions, yet their ears were in full view. Some were perked up as their owners leaned forward. Others were already dozing on the pillows. 

He needed to bind them to his performance. He needed to speak with the kind of eloquence he associated with Allura. He needed to command them like Shiro. When he looked out over the assembled Clarion, his stomach clenched. Maybe someone like Hunk could do this, he thought; Hunk had struck him as someone very self-assured. But all Keith felt was terror and a growing certainty that he was going to blow his cover. Pidge could think her way out of this. Lance’s exuberance would have kept the entire room distracted for the time Hyladra needed.

Keith. Keith had two things the others didn’t. The first was an ability to play the chameleon. Ever since he’d arrived at--  _ been taken to _ \-- Central Command, he’d been playing a complex game of fitting in without truly assimilating. He was in a different body, one he knew much less than his old one, but the only thing that had changed after a bit of practice was a little less control of his ears. If he needed to channel Allura and Shiro, he could. He just needed to dig around for that confidence that wreathed the two, even when he knew they doubted themselves. Added to that, he’d experienced the feverish passion of Qore and the brimstone of Volux. It just needed to be tempered to something that sounded authentic for a Tuvani to say.

“Our cause is righteous,” Keith said. Bad start, but he couldn’t redo his opening. He stood straight, held his head high, and tried to keep his voice smooth and calm. “As a child, I dreamed of serving the Voice. Yet when I become a temple tender, I found myself serving the Druids instead. I brought them their meals. I cleaned their robes. I eased every task in their lives and then thanked them for the work.” Keith shook his head. “What did they give in return? Pretty speeches, pointless ceremony, and secrets with simple answers. The Druids are charlatans who steal their powers from the Voice. They guard her fiercely for they know if they allow others to truly be touched by her, every Galra will have their powers.”

Whispers, whispers, and more whispers. His promises were a tantalizing glimpse into temple life. The Clarion attended services. They sang and read the texts and said the prayers. But they didn’t know temple life. They didn’t know his lie. Even Qore didn’t. Because who in this room had had the Voice speak to them? Only Keith. 

The thought made him brazen. “For the past ten thousand years,” Keith said, “the Voice has been caged by bars of fear and--” What? Reason, anger, cowardice, what?-- “sloth. We fear the natural order of the Galra. Zarkon, in his deathly wisdom,” what did that even  _ mean _ , “has told us that biology and tradition should be ignored. His excuses have come to us like a mother’s reassurances.” HIs skin crawled. Even the image of Zarkon as a parent was wrong, let alone as a cooing mother. “Everything is fine, he says. This is how the universe is supposed to be. We listen to his warm words as he grinds his foot into the backs of those with high ranks. We-- the Tuvani, the Harim, the Ashen, and others-- are elevated at the expense of our betters. Our bodies are used to defend the sick system that Zarkon has created. We are used to shield the Voice from the Galra.”

Keith stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall. He refused to watch people’s ears. He already felt like withering away in embarrassment. “Our gathering is more than a political movement. It is a moral statement. It is a declaration that Zarkon’s order is a perverted system. It says that it cannot stay. Our revolution’s power is unmatched, for Zarkon’s favourites are not true soldiers and the bodies he lines his palace’s corridors with know, deep down, that Zarkon has not saved them. No, he has  _ enslaved _ them. Let the Harim return to their fortune telling. Let the Ashen mine. Let my rank, the Tuvani, tend to proper temples. We wish to serve the Galra and the Voice. Not Zarkon’s Druids and a twisted order that denies us what is in our very blood.”

Dramatic, to the point of foolishness. But the Clarion were nodding. He’d even got a few cheers when he castigated Zarkon. Keith glanced over his shoulder, as though searching for reassurance from Manec. It gave him time to think. What else could he say? He didn’t know enough about the Galra for literary allusions or clever pop culture jokes or whatever else charmed crowds. 

What he did know was the Paladins. “More than his warped vision of our people,” Keith said, “his past failures haunt us. Voltron has returned, led by a race he claimed was extinct. Worse, a new species has joined the war against us, manning the Lions he has had ten thousand years to capture. He has failed, again and again, to protect us. How many died in the attack on Central Command? How many deaths in far-flung reaches of the galaxy could have been prevented?”

Keith spread his arms wide. It’d worked for other people, he figured. “He has given us no choice. Whatever kind and gentle methods we could have used… Their efficacy waned long ago. We were fated for this. The Voice blessed the desecration of the service, helping end the Wilet’s life, and she has watched her temple be destroyed with approval.”

She hadn’t struck him down, at least. “She has allowed erya to spread in her temple for she knows our desire to communicate with her. What we have done and what we will do are necessary. They are  _ vital _ to the continuation of our way of life.” He sounded like a weird street preacher. All he needed was a  _ The End is Nigh _ sign. “I am eternally grateful to be here for the final push for change.”

Roaring cheers. None of them had an inkling of what he was doing. He’d bought Hyladra a bit of time. Words were failing him now, though. He could ramble for several more minutes, but that would overstay his welcome. He needed to bring something new to the stage. Another five minutes, and he’d know he’d given Hyladra as much time as he could. 

So he turned around and stretched a hand in Qore’s direction. “A final dance,” he said, “before you return to what you were meant to be.”

Qore smiled. She shouldn’t have. How angry would she be when the guards came? How long until she determined he was the leak, if ever? He just hoped the guards  _ came _ in the first place. She reached out and took his hand. “What dance?” she murmured as she came closer and closer. 

It was the other thing he was good at. Anything with his body he excelled at. Dancing, acrobatics, fighting, piloting… they all came back to the same fundamentals. Reflexes. Instincts. Endurance. And now he was going to use one of the lamest superpowers in the world to buy his alien friend another five minutes so she could tell a galactic dictator that he was about to be attacked. 

“The Shadow’s Mourning,” he said. Her claws dug into the palm of his hand. His smile widened. “Do you want to lead, Qore?”

“It would honour me.” She reached up with a free hand and brushed a finger against his cheek. “And then the uncrowning can begin.”

It was embarrassing. Stupid, awkward, and embarrassing. It was an old dance-- old enough to avoid associations with the Druids-- and it involved pairs of Galra miming Gal’s dusk and the spirits that came in the dark. As with everything Galran, it focused largely on symbolism. Esoteric and almost occult symbolism at that.

Qore took the centre. She swayed like a reed in evening’s winds. One arm was raised, palm up as though she cradled something. She rocked from foot to foot, turning in a circle. Slowly, slowly, her posture shrunk with the sinking sun.

Keith played the spirits. The Shadow’s Mourning demanded a strange amount of acrobatics for the Galra. Keith twirled and spun around her, his robes fluttering with the motion. He rose and sunk and lunged at her. Qore never flinched. For some temple tenders, it was the hardest part of the dance. It had been for Keith. Volux had enjoyed that the most out of all the training they did. Spectres made of quintessence lunged at him, and every time Keith flinched back or raised his arm to block the incoming ‘attack’. 

When Qore couldn’t go down any further, she sprung from her position. She mirrored his pirouettes and leaps. In the silence, it looked terrible. He tried not to show his cringes whenever he faced anyone. Qore beamed, though. Her eyes were wide and her face cheerful and Keith tried to mirror that. He suspected he failed, but he figured if he moved fast, nobody would have a chance to see him grimacing.

The ferocity of the dance rose with every bound. Keith and Qore were meant to channel the fury of restless ghosts whose actions in life had driven them away from the Voice. Simple murder could be forgiven: the spirits were kin-killers, those who hurt Galran children, and those who blasphemed. Denied a part in the afterlife, their minds were lost to the madness of eternity without rest. Their forms were a poisoned quintessence. The dance was meant to show the danger in the spirits through the acrobatic flips and jumps of the dance.  _ Look upon these fools _ , it said,  _ and see how close you are to them. _ The bigger concern for temple tenders was breaking a leg in a fall or twisting an ankle in a too-enthusiastic spin.

Qore wobbled on one landing. Keith twirled close. His hand darted out, steadying her, and then he continued on. She mouthed thanks at him when her back was next to the crowd. He couldn’t even manage a wobbly smile back. 

The dance ended when the spirits crashed together. They ended in each other’s arms, chests pressed against each other. Their faces were close. Their robes fluttered, still stuck in the swishing dance. “Is it down again,” Qore whispered, “or do we outstretch?”

Keith couldn’t remember. Up made thematic sense, but outstretching to the audience had a good message too. “Outstretch,” he decided. They leaned together as one. Keith’s arm was longer; the pads of Qore’s hands brushed Keith’s bushy wrists. Keith bared his teeth and tried to imagine a hellish light filling his eyes. He doubted he succeeded. 

The crowd still cheered. Keith put that down to politeness and their own exuberance at what was to come. What mattered, though, was that Keith had bought Hyladra another five minutes. HIs legs burned from crouching and jumping which forced him to hobble back to his chair, but Manec pet his shoulder, leaning down to whisper congratulations. “You were born for this,” she murmured. “It shows in your every move.”

Keith bowed his head again. The cringe hadn’t been peeled off his face yet. “...Thank you.” If there were any cameras in the temple that’d recorded what he’d done, he’d have to figure out how to destroy it before Volux or Zarkon saw. If they saw. Keith rubbed his thigh as it twitched. His clawed toes flexed at the touch, though their motion was hidden by his shoes..

“Let us begin,” Manec said. “The uncrowning has been blessed by all, even the Voice.” She pulled a remote from her pocket. It was a slim black rectangle with a large gold button in the centre. She pressed it. Keith’s heart stopped. But all that happened was the screen behind the stage turned from white static to a vision of Zarkon’s throne room and space. Keith twisted in his seat to get a better view.

Everyone was there. Zarkon rested on his throne, his elbows on the armrests and his chin propped up by folded hands. He wore his full armor, as though he were about to march on a battlefield. The other Galra followed his lead: Sendak stood there, resplendent, while a dozen other officers listened to him speak. A metaphorical wagon train waited behind the bulwark of high-ranking officers. Thace stood behind a bulky officer whose dark fur almost looked like Keith’s. The bulky officer’s square face and squat features were unpleasant to see, but his demeanour vigorously declared to the world how little he cared. What mattered were the colours and shape of his thick armor. It looked, Keith thought, like nothing he’d ever seen before. Dark, with orange eyes on each side of his chest, the armor’s shoulder pads jutted out like elbows. 

_ Thug _ , Keith thought. Whoever the man was, he was a thug. He exuded none of Sendak’s slime or Thace’s elegance. Sendak was a knife to the back. Thace was poison. This man was a cudgel to the skull. Efficient, yes, but it had no style, and Keith knew Zarkon valued style.

“They know nothing,” Manec said. Keith jerked back to the present. “They don’t know that so many plot against them so close by. They don’t know that my janitorial cell has been working to weaken the failsafes in case of sudden venting. We have chiselled at glass, disabled emergency doors, and destroyed escape pods. Our schedules put us in the throne room every third day, and every third day we worked so that their slaughter would be complete.”

Keith’s stomach dropped out. He’d known they’d planned this for a long time, but this was on a scale he’d never suspected. Chiselling away at Central Command’s glass would take months, if not years, to have an effect. They were thick-- thick enough that only intense explosions would shatter them. Covering their tracks for so long spoke to careful planning and slow execution. Keith stared at the screen’s windowed background. He tried to remember if he’d seen anything  _ off _ about the glass when he’d been there. There’d been nothing of concern visible, and Keith suspected they’d targeted the seams of the glass. He almost swore on impulse. Did the suits the Galra officers wore offer protection from space? He didn’t know, but he suspected it wasn’t much, if any. 

Manec glanced at him. Her mask’s features looked gleeful. “A series of bombs fill the room. Lined along the ceiling, like festival lanterns that chase away wandering spirits. This is everything we’ve worked for.” Her finger stroked the remote’s gold button. “Look at the false Emperor scorn his officers. What failure have they committed this time?”

On screen, Zarkon’s face had darkened. He stared down the bulky Galra with 80s shoulder pads. 80s Galra refused to back down, even though he never seemed to look Zarkon in the face. Manec laughed at the scene. “Let us end this.”

He wanted it to be fake footage. He  _ needed _ it to be fake. But how would they fake it? They’d had a short time to evacuate, find the feed, and send it false information. Was it enough time? Zarkon motioned with a hand towards Sendak who nodded. Manec tapped the gold button one last time. It clicked in the dead silence as everyone held their breaths.

The screen turned black before static surged, crackling like a happy fire. Keith tried to breathe. His heart thundered in his chest. Had he felt a slight shake of the station, or was that his heart’s frantic pace? Clarion watchers spoke to each other in hushed tones. Manec didn’t turn away from the screen. She didn’t cheer. 

Keith saw it as a lifeline. Things hadn’t gone as expected, then. Had they set up defenses on the hidden camera that had malfunctioned when the bomb went off? Or had Zarkon and his soldiers cut the feed? The thoughts were too desperate to be anything comforting.

Manec turned around and spread her arms wide. “They are dead,” she declared. The crowd exploded in cheers. They leapt from their pillows and danced and a chant rose and warred with a trio of Galra who began to sing. 

_ Ding, dong the witch is dead _ . Don’t panic, he told himself. If Zarkon was dead, his performance was even more important. He couldn’t find the will to fake a smile, so he buried his faces into his hands, his shoulder shaking. Manec kept speaking, urging the crowd to more and more hysterics. Keith peeked between his fingers to see some Clarion discarding their masks. 

“It’s done,” Qore said beside him, breathy and unsure. “It’s finally done.”

Galra kissed below the stage. Others hugged. “It doesn’t feel real,” Keith admitted. “What happens now?”

He’d failed. It wasn’t the dull, crushing failure of being kicked out of the Garrison. It was sharp and fearful. What  _ would _ happen now? He’d become Keirin to stop the Clarion. They’d succeeded anyway, and he was still Keirin-- except now, he was chained to the cause. There wasn’t any option to turn back. Escaping would be just as hard. What would happen to the other Paladins and the Alteans? What would happen to the Red Lion?

What would happen to all the Galra he’d known?

His hands fell from his face. He hunched over his knees and stared out at the crowd. Their repulsive glee poisoned the temple’s usual quiet. The frenzy fed on itself, to an ecstatic din that echoed through the temple’s halls; Keith turned to Manec, praying she’d calm the crowd so he wouldn’t stand out further. She still wore her mask. Talen stood beside her as other Galra filed on to the stage to bow and scrape before her. 

It was done, then. Keith wobbled to his feet. Every limb in his body shook. No rest would cure his fatigue, he thought. This was his future. He’d brought it on himself. Yet one thing puzzled him:

Zarkon’s throne room had been attacked, yet not a single alarm had gone off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is the 18th! I'll see you all then. 8)


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a bit of uncomfortable gore in this chapter!

There were no alarms. Reasonably, someone could have disabled them. But who? Had the Clarion cell Manec led done it? Or had Zarkon ordered them disabled to prevent panic through Central Command? Keith sidled over to Manec. She was speaking to the other cell leaders, including Qore. Her voice was barely audible above the celebrating crowd. “Did any of you cut the alarms?”

Hope lifted the weight from his shoulders. Keith tried not to lean in close. He stared at a nearby amphora. It was mostly empty by now. Keep talking, he thought. He needed to know for certain before he acted. “No,” Talen said. “Why? You didn’t stop them?”

“I hoped to fuel panic.” Manec turned to look at the screen. “Then we would storm the command room and control the station.”

The screen continued to project static. Keith wanted to  _ move _ . Standing grated against everything in his heart. Yet if he moved, he risked drawing attention to himself. Talen crossed their arms. “...Perhaps we should leave.”

“The bomb went off,” Manec insisted. “I felt the quake. Didn’t you? And the remote showed the command to blow was received.” She shook her head. “They’re trying to cover it up already. We need to march on their command centre. From there, sympathizers will gather to us.”

Talen nodded. “I will lead our forces with your blessing, then?”

“Always with my blessing,” Manec said gently. “Take command. My cells will prepare supplies and follow after the fighting.” She motioned to Keith. “Keirin! Qore. You know where the supplies are here, yes?”

“Of course,” Qore said as she hurried to the front of the pack of Galra. “Do you need weapons, first aid, food--?”

“Everything,” Manec said. “If it could be of use, I need it packed and ready to go.” 

Qore blinked before she surged into action. “Follow me,” she commanded. Keith half expected Manec to scold her, but instead she simply followed Qore. As they left the stage, Manec began to call out to her subordinates. Celebrating Clarion members abandoned their companions. The remaining Clarion were gathered by Talen. 

“We need arms first,” Manec said. “Our soldiers have only the small arms mandated by the Empire.” She had none of the small arms, but as Keith glanced back, he saw the small holsters at Talen’s Galra’s waists. At best, they held pistols. More likely, they were stun-guns. “The quicker we arm them, the faster we can secure our control on Central Command.”

Keith pursed his lips. “I’m not sure we have anything powerful--”

“There are stores hidden by the Druids,” Qore said. But why would the Druids with their powers in quintessence manipulation bother with guns and whatever else? He told Qore that who shrugged. “Temple tenders were meant to be able to defend this place. It’s not common anymore, but we are armed just in case.”

That unsettled Keith. He didn’t think any of the other temple tenders knew how to fight. Qore presented the action as more of a hypothetical that’d long passed as a pressing issue. Yet they still had weapons in the temple. How did she know that? Who else in the temple knew? Volux should have told him. It would have given him protection. Or worse: it would have escalated any conflicts he got into in the temple. “Understandable,” he said, even if it wasn’t. The only threat the temples faced were the Clarion, and here they were, helping themselves to the temple’s arms. 

The weapons were stored in the Druids’ office, behind a fake wall. “How did you know?” Keith couldn’t help but ask.

“Druid Vyfa told me.” 

She’d been the one helping the Clarion-- making erya, arranging meetings, and now revealing the location of weapons in the temple. Eliminating her would have alarmed the Clarion, but keeping her in place proved that it perhaps would have been wiser to have got rid of her. Keith nodded, though, as if it were understandable and reasonable. He pretended his heart didn’t clench when rows of guns and knives were grabbed from the wall and quickly ferried to Talen’s forces. 

“They don’t know we’re in the temple,” Talen said when Keith and Manec delivered a series of plasma rifles. “Scouts saw nothing when they explored the halls outside. The dead guards haven’t been discovered either.”

Keith tried, once again, to reach out to Hyladra. Silence greeted him. She still wasn’t dead. There’d been no backlash or sudden panic from her. The bond remained alive. The issue was that she refused to let even faint emotions trickle down the bond. What was she hiding? What did she not want him to know? His mind ran wild. Maybe Zarkon was dead, and she was trying to coordinate a resistance. Maybe Zarkon lived, and she was afraid her flurry of emotions would hurt his ability to act. Either were possible. 

Talen’s forces carried weapons now. The Clarion carried them with comfort. One woman stroked her weapon’s long barrel. He’d armed the enemy. His hands shook as he handed a short Galran a heavy pistol. He didn’t know what it did, but he knew that it’d kill with ease. If the Clarion killed any of Zarkon’s forces on Central Command, part of the blame rested on his shoulders. He bowed his head, as though in deference. In reality, his jaw was clenched.

Talen’s soldiers marched out of the temple in neat little rows, in neat little synchronized motions. Years of practice and millennia of tradition, all from Zarkon, had molded even how they moved. And now, they used that practice and tradition to turn against their maker. Keith watched as they moved down the temple’s hall and into the wider station. Whatever happened, Keith needed to survive it. “We should get to gathering food and medicine,” he murmured beside Manec and Qore. “Even with their arms, some will be injured.” He hoped every one of them was killed.

Manec nodded. “Dela, attend to collecting the medicines. Qore, Keirin, we shall deal with the food supplies.” 

Dela took a dozen Clarion and sent them out as agents to collect whatever medical material existed in each room. For most of the Clarion, their task brought them to pantries, a kitchen attached to the temple, and small fridges in administrative rooms. The kitchen help had been sent away when the attack threat had come in, Qore told him, and they’d abandoned immense amounts of food, most of it half prepared. Some Galra set about finishing the food. “We won’t have anything to finish it in the command centre,” Manec said briskly as she prodded at a roasting bird. “And this will help morale greatly.”

Keith kept stirring the stew as other Galra collected implements to transport the food in and on. He tried to think of anything to say, but his mood was too poor and the speech had exhausted him. Qore took his place: “It’s the least we can do,” she said. “They’re putting their lives on the line for the greater good. If a simple meal of meat and bread lifts their spirits, it is no trouble to make it for them.”

Ass-kisser, he thought. Manec seemed to pause in her prodding. “You are very enthusiastic,” she said softly. There was no judgement in her voice. “I wish more saw these tasks the same way.”

Keith made a face at the stew. Were all extremist groups so weird? The conversations around him were, by turns, average conversations about what foods were the best and slavish ideological posturing. A pair of men who stacked loaves of bread on a cart spoke about the evils of the Palace: it was too big, too luxurious, and too central to the Empire, one said. The other agreed, adding that the Palace was simply a shrine to Zarkon’s vanity. Behind them, a man and woman chatted about their favourite sauces. The woman enjoyed sour and meaty sauces; the man adored anything salty. The contrast between the conversations unsettled him, as though those around him were no longer in their right minds. It wasn’t true, though. The Clarion were keenly in touch with reality. 

Keith didn’t know how long they were in the kitchen for. There were no clocks that he could read, and time moved strangely in the kitchens: food browned and rose and released soft and heavy smells that dazzled his senses. Rendered fat sputtered in the oven that Manec brooded over like an anxious hen. Keith’s stomach rumbled. He wanted to ask how long it’d been, but it couldn’t have been long, the stew hadn’t started bubbling and the room wasn’t too hot--

In the distance, plasma rifles fired. Their keen whizzing whirs echoed in the areas out the temple. Their sounds bounced in the halls, turning from sharp yowls to screams. Keith jumped; one of the men dropped two loaves of bread. “They’re here,” Manec breathed. “Great Voice, they’re  _ here _ .”

Keith shook from pure relief. Maybe Zarkon wasn’t dead. Maybe Hyladra had got in contact with someone who could take action. “What do we do?” he asked the room. Dozens of Galra watched Manec for an answer.

“We wait,” she said. “Our forces will win.”

Only Manec returned to cooking. Everyone else stood at their stations or slunk around the room, hunting for friends or fellow Clarion cellmates. Qore took over stirring the stew cauldron. She didn’t say anything. She simply stood there and prodded at lump of meat and vegetables with the ladle Keith had let go of. Keith looked around the room, hunting for the mood. There was anxiety-- not unexpected-- and some alarm. What caught his attention were the glances people kept shooting Manec. They expected her to comfort them, but Manec didn’t strike Keith as someone to do that. Their confidence was battered by the presence of Zarkon’s soldiers, and with no comfort, how likely were they to stick around if the Clarion soldiers lost? 

He needed them to stay convinced the Clarion were going to win, right up until Zarkon’s soldiers put them in cuffs. Manec could have cultivated that faith, but she seemed to think nobody needed that. The speeches had already been said, after all, and they’d even got a dance too! 

A dim attitude to take. People needed constant feedback, even when they were Galra. The sounds of the fighting were muffled by distance: only the guns were audible. Galran ears twitched at each blast. Manec didn’t even flinch, as though she were used to the din. Which was highly possible, considering her attitude. 

It left the task to Keith. “Come to me!” he called out. Galra turned to him. His skin crawled at the desperation in their faces. It was temporary comfort, he reminded himself. It ended in their deaths. Any relief he gave them would last for minutes. He held out his hands. “A prayer for our soldiers.”

Qore abandoned the stew and took one of his hands. She offered her free one to the Galra around them. “For victory,” she said; “victory and righteousness.”

She was a broken record. He knew he’d find her annoying in retrospect, but for now, he needed her presence. Manec eyed them yet said nothing. Galra came in little waves. They took each other’s hands hesitantly, as though they’d never done group prayers. Which was possible: prayer circles were usually held by Druids, and the Clarion, out of all their doctrines, hated the Druids beyond all else. They propped up Zarkon’s Empire with their powers, after all.

Keith wasn’t a fan of singing. Not because he was  _ bad _ . It was because it involved an audience and the possibility of people eavesdropping. Volux and Thace had beaten out the worst of the fear-- Thace through constant lessons, and Volux through constant sarcasm about it while he did the act. Yet he’d blanked on prayers for the circle that  _ didn’t _ involve Druids. All that remained were a handful of songs, all about the power of the Voice. None of them were like Earth hymns. 

The closest description for the song he sang was a crackling, dying fire. Slow, with sudden sharp sounds, and a roughness to the voice that declared it truly alien, it would have been agonizing to sing as a human. As a Galra, it still hurt, but his voice didn’t give out. Galra stomped in time with the song, providing a lazily staggering beat. Some Galra sang with him; others merely watched and kept the beat with a single foot. 

Manec watched as Keith sang in modern Galran. It wasn’t a purely traditional song-- Old Galran was too associated with the Druids to use-- but instead something written a few centuries ago. It came from a Tuvani poet, someone Thace had insisted he needed to know  _ something _ about. The song spoke of the rising sun’s rays that couldn’t compare to the Voice’s radiance. Every Galra, when they looked at the horizon, could only imagine the beauty beneath the sands.

It was creepy. It was obsessive, hungry, and desperate. It begged for the Voice’s attention and demanded to feel her light. Whatever the story to the Tuvani poet, he doubted that she’d been particularly healthy to be around. The Clarion yowled in their cheers when the song ended. Qore squeezed his hand, nodding at him.  _ Keep going _ , her face said. 

The sound of fighting came closer and closer. Keith raised his voice in song once again. This time it was an old song that Tuvani used to sing as they cleaned the temple. The chant demanded listeners call back. Only a few knew to do that, but the others caught on quick. 

The chant was about life at the temple. It portrayed it as saccharine-sweet and comforting. To live at the temple, it declared, was to be blessed by the Voice. A Tuvani was born for this life, and to this life all Tuvani would go. Children would be born, children would apprentice at the temple, and they would marry fellow Tuvani, raising their children at the temple who would then continue the cycle. It unnerved him how proud the songwriter had been of such a limited world. All that mattered to them were the daily rituals of temple life, their family, and the Voice. For a race as obsessed with expansion and war as the Galra, the Tuvani in the song lived in gentle obliviousness to the outside world. Disturbing would be a kind word for it.

The gun fire got closer and closer. The Clarion had to be retreating into the temple. The Galra around him seemed to realize that. Some were shooting anxious looks at where the temple’s hall began. Others loosened their grips on each other’s hands, ready to bolt for the kitchen’s backdoor. “Have faith,” Keith said when the song ended. “The Voice is with us. She will shepherd us to victory, even from our darkest moments.” 

An absolute lie. The Voice likely didn’t even know what was happening, nor would she care if she did. All that mattered were supplicants and quintessence, and a Clarion bled just as much as Zarkon’s forces did. “Look to the stars,” he said, “and know that our faith shines brighter than any of them.” It was a line from  _ The Captain of Thorns _ . Qore’s grip of his hand tightened. She had to have picked that up, then. It didn’t matter, though, so long as she didn’t call him out on it. “Pray with me. In your hearts, you know the words.”

Keith closed his eyes. He waited for other Galra to follow his lead; when the whispered prayers were audible, he opened his eyes again. Most of the Galra had closed their eyes, and now frantically spoke prayers to the Voice. The few whose eyes were open-- Qore, Manec, and a scattered group throughout the circle-- had their gazes on the kitchen doors. They were going to be the problem, he decided. He need to cut off any avenue of retreat through social pressure. If he kept them singing, fewer would flee. Already, one who wasn’t part of the prayer circle had inched to the kitchen’s backdoor. They met Keith’s gaze as they swung it open. They had the grace to bow their head at him before they ducked out, set on fleeing.

The cameras would catch them, Keith hoped, though they were smarter than the rest of the Clarion in the kitchen. He let a minute of prayer tick by before he launched into another song. Soft and comforting, it came from an old lullaby. Some poet had got their hands on the simple melody and decided to rewrite the lyrics. It didn’t require stomping or callbacks. It was a drifting song meant to comfort frightened children or Galra dizzied by the Voice’s presence. “You’d have heard it several times as a child,” Volux had told him, “and many more as a temple tender.”

That didn’t help his memory. But when he faltered, Qore took up the song. Galra throughout the room relaxed. Shoulders slumped. Some smiled. The tension in the room eased, even as the gunfire edged ever closer. They had minutes, Keith thought. Possibly two at most. He could set the Clarion running from the kitchen, and Zarkon’s forces would find them before the end of the day. The longer he delayed the Clarion, though, the less time they had to go to escape pods. The one who’d fled might find a working pod before Zarkon’s forces could track them.

What now, though? He’d run out of songs. “Qore,” Keith said. “Give us an Ashen song--” 

“No,” Manec said. She shoved the oven closed, leaving the roasting bird to burn. “We have done what we can.” A grenade exploded in the distance. Qore flinched at the sound. “If Talen and his soldiers have lost, then it is up to us to continue the fight in a better position. Qore, sound the fire alarm. The rest of you…” She stared down at them, her stance steely and straight. “Find the nearest escape pods. Don’t look back. With the false emperor dead, total victory will be ours. But not today.” 

It was like the Clarion were being woken from a trance. Many gaped at Manec, as though her words hadn’t sunk into their minds yet. Three others darted for the kitchen’s door to the temple, armed with knives and ready to help the soldiers. More fled to the kitchen’s backdoor, into the halls of Central Command. 

Keith released his grip on Qore and the Galra beside him. The Galra didn’t wait: she bolted for the kitchen’s backdoor, while Qore pressed close. “What do we do?” she murmured, but it wasn’t to him. It was to herself. “Manec?”

Manec came to them. “We leave,” she said. “All three of us will be desired targets.” She reached over and grabbed a large butcher’s knife. There were no other weapons available: they’d all been given to the Clarion soldiers. “Through the back. Qore, take the rear.”

Qore picked up another knife, slightly smaller with a glinting point. “Understood,” she said. It left Keith in the middle as their group filed out. Some Galra tailed after them; those that remained behind were searching for hiding places. When the door closed behind them-- sealing tight through locks, as entering through the kitchen had long been determined as a security risk-- Qore spoke. “Are we sure that none of Zarkon’s forces are waiting for us here?”

“When there are armed soldiers on the other end,” Manec said, “I would question the judgement of any commander who sent soldiers to catch unarmed cooks.” She strode down the hall, glancing down each corridor they passed. “We won’t be taking the main routes, however.”

Their group dwindled the further they walked. They’d started at a dozen people, and every offshoot they passed, one or a pair of Galra would skitter off. Manec said nothing to them when they left. Keith wondered if the escape pods in those offshoots would even be operational. He didn’t put t past Zarkon’s forces to have disabled them before engaging in a fight. Manec seemed to agree with that line of thinking. For all the twists and turns their path took them on, she never stopped once at the escape pods, or even followed signage pointing them out. 

There were no Galra to stop them. Every turn, Keith expected a squad of soldiers to stop them, and every turn he was disappointed. He kept glancing at the maps on the walls. They moved further and further away from the temple until it vanished from the map. They were out of the radius where Keith would expect Zarkon’s forces to have turned off the escape pods. Yet still, they didn’t get anywhere close to them.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked as they passed a pod station. “If we’re looking for an escape pod…” He motioned back at the pod, though Manec’s pace had it out of view in seconds.

“They’re too risky,” Manec said. “They don’t move fast enough to truly escape the Empire.” 

Yet she’d let the other Clarion use them without comment. He didn’t need to wonder why: they were bait, a distraction as Manec, Qore, and he escaped. But what would they use instead? There was no way Manec led them towards a hangar. The entire station… wouldn’t be on red alert, he realized. Because there were no alarms. At best, some soldiers would defend  _ a _ hangar, but Keith doubted they had the strength to guard each one of the several dozen on Central Command. When Manec disposed of her mask in an airlock, Keith’s fears were confirmed. 

They could escape. Some quick talking, and they could steal a ship, flee Central Command, and go to a Clarion outpost or wherever. But neither Qore nor Manec knew that Keith could kill them. He could kill them mid-flight and take the ship to the outer edges of the universe and try to contact the Castle of Lions and Pidge would find his noise among a trillion messages, and then--

What? They’d see him as a Galra. He’d return without the Red Lion. He’d go back to them only to have the same problems with less of a chance to steal back the Red Lion. Fleeing Zarkon now would mean less danger from the Clarion and fewer mindgames. It’d do little else for his situation.

“What’s our story?” he asked instead. 

Manec ruffled her hair. Most of it was tied back in a tight braid decorated in gems threaded through the long hair. It wasn’t properly military for the Galra, but then she was a janitor. Having long hair wouldn’t cause problems, particularly when it was neatly tied back. Manec took her time to reply. Keith suspected she wasn’t completely sure of the plan either. 

They entered another hall. “We’re there to ask for the guards’ needs. Are they hungry? Is the cleaning crew effective? Then we shall choose a ship, board it, and flee. Do either of you know how to fly?”

“I know the basics,” Qore said.

Keith shook his head. “I don’t know a thing.” It was the single biggest lie he’d ever told. 

Manec nodded, though he still hadn’t glimpsed her face. “I shall take lead, then.”

What did he do now, then? The guards could catch them out on their lie, and it’d preserve Keith’s cover, though he likely no longer needed it. He could stop Qore and Manec himself, though they were armed and he was not. Experience in hand-to-hand would help but the knives they held were sharp, and he didn’t know how trained in fighting either of them were. 

Would the guards ask who he was, or would they simply knock him out or kill him? The latter thought unsettled him. The Clarion were despised by Zarkon’s forces, but would they kill him without an order to? If Qore and Manec jumped into action when confronted, they might see him as a potential threat to be dealt with. It was risky to leave his fate in the guards’ hands. So he’d take his fate into his own hands, he decided. It was just a matter of timing. 

They wouldn’t dispose of their knives until the last minute, if they even bothered to play their parts well. He didn’t put it past them to slip the knives into jackets or robe pockets. He watched Qore through the reflective glass and metal halls. She prowled along behind him, her breath brushing against his neck as she held the knife up, ready to plunge it into any enemy. She had it in an unsettling reverse grip, as though she was about to stab him in the back. 

He scrutinized her hold. Did she know how to use it, or had she simply watched a lot of Galran TV? Her sure grip hinted at some knowledge, but her outstretched arm kept wobbling, as though already tired. He couldn’t see Manec’s grip, though she moved with purpose and speed. Most Galra did, really. He’d be shocked if she didn’t. 

Attacking in the cramped hall would be a poor choice: there wouldn’t be enough room to move around in, and he might be clipped by one of the knives. The best idea, he figured, was to take out Qore first. He knew she had some skill, making her the biggest known threat. After he took her knife, he could go for Manec. 

They marched towards an intersection of halls. It was good enough: when Manec passed from the open space, Keith threw himself back, into Qore. He kept his body low to avoid the outstretched knife. Her soft lower body held enough muscle to push air from his lungs, but not enough to stop him. Qore yelped. Her balance gave way; Keith twisted as he fell with her and grabbed at her hand. Her grip had loosened in shock. She watched him, aghast, as he ripped the knife free. It fell from her hand to the floor. He rolled off her, picking up the knife as he went. 

“What--?!” was all Manec managed as she turned. Her round features made Keith think of matrons and mothers. Yet her grasp on her knife-- larger and sharper-- revealed knowledge of what she was doing. It made sense. She knew how to pilot ships, after all. The Clarion had been training her for things like this. 

He went for her legs. They were wrapped in tight cloth. The tendons in the limbs tensed, almost readying themselves to be sliced. The knife’s blade slashed the cloth apart like the fabric mere cobwebs; when its edge touched the inside of Manec’s knee, he heard Qore howling. Just as the sound registered, Manec’s other leg swept in. Her leg bashed against his ribcage and sent him flying into the wall. He didn’t release the knife. He didn’t pause to check himself. He scrambled to his feet and darted away from where he’d fallen. He heard someone land behind him. 

The coming wall proved an excellent point to leap off. He hopped as he came close and used his right leg to push off. It took him over several feet, right back into Manec. She startled back, her eyes wide. Qore crouched nearby, right where he’d landed after Manec’s kick. Both stared at him through uncomprehending eyes. 

He kept moving before their realization settled in. He stayed low to the ground, his body leaned forward. Manec snapped into action. She mirrored his charge and raised the knife high. It was a mistake: he went into a slide that shot him past her. Her high knife slowed her reaction time. She swore as he bounded to his feet and whipped around, knife aimed at the back of her neck. At the last second, reality hit him: if he killed her, valuable information would be lost. He jerked the knife away, leaving her open neck unmarred.

It gave Manec time to turn and stab him in the left shoulder. Metal chipped against bone and ripped through cartilage. Keith swallowed his yowl of pain. Adrenaline surged through his body. He needed to keep going. He moved with the force of Manec’s stab, stopping it from digging further. Manec tried to follow his motion, but she overstepped. Her wobbling stance let the knife fall from his shoulder. His left arm twitched as a numbness spread through the limb. 

He didn’t need it, though. Manec’s stumble made her hunch as she tried to steady herself. Her head was at a perfect height for a solid thump from his knife’s pommel. He lurched towards her, a smirk spreading over his face, but his leg jerked out from under him. “Traitor,” Qore hissed, though he couldn’t see her face. Sharp claws dug into his lower calf. She was strong-- even untrained, she was stronger than most humans. But he wasn’t human anymore, and he was far more trained than she was. As she tried to yank his leg out from under him, he slammed his free foot into her. She cried out, instinctively letting go to shy away. 

The delay had cost him. Manec loomed over him, her teeth bared. The knife angled for his face this time. Another duck and it sailed overhead. He lunged into Manec. He was unused to the tactic: he’d rarely had the sheer mass required for it, but as a Galra, things had changed. Manec flailed as she fell; Keith bailed half-way down, flinging himself to the side, into a roll. HIs shoulder screamed at him. He hadn’t used it for the tackle, but the roll had enraged it. Blood drenched his robe’s sleeve. The cork-brown had darkened to something ugly, almost rotten-looking. 

“How long?” Qore shouted behind him. “How long have you been betraying us?”

He ignored her question. Manec tried to jump up, but her left leg spasmed painfully. It’d likely twisted and ripped at the muscle. Galra were too delicate, he thought, even with their immense strength. Qore kept shouting at him as he prowled closer. Manec dragged herself upright, though she remained on the ground. She held the knife like she could do anything from her position. At best, she’d get a tendon, but then he could stab her as he fell. 

“Zarkon sends his regards,” Keith said. He lashed out with the pommel as Manec tried to block the knife with her own blade. She held the blade upright, near her head. His pommel crashed against the blade and slid off, into her temple. She fell back, dazed. It wasn’t as clean a blow as he’d hoped. He didn’t push his advantage. Instead, he leaned down and pulled the bigger knife from her hand. 

It was awkward to hold two knives in the same hand. He surrendered to the inevitable and slipped the smaller knife into the belt around his waist. It wouldn’t be secure, but it’d at least give some protection against another Clarion arming themselves. Then he punched Manec in the face twice: once for a purpose, the second for ruining his shoulder. His left arm swung limply at his side.

She didn’t get up. It left him to turn around and stare down Qore. She huddled against the wall, mouth agape. Yet her eyes burned with fire. “I hope you die,” she hissed. “How  _ dare _ you.”

Keith lifted his right arm out in a poorly executed shrug. “It was easy,” he said. “You  _ made _ it easy.” He forced back the urge to limp. If he was going to do this, he was going to pretend nothing was wrong, that Manec hadn’t got a good shot in, that Qore’s loss was unavoidable. “He’s not dead, you know.” He wasn’t certain, but-- “I had someone warn him. And the alarms didn’t go off.”

Qore’s rage dampened to sudden despair. “Keirin, you know why I did this.”

“I do,” he said. He stood over her. “You wanted to help your people. You thought the Clarion’s victory was preordained by the Voice. I told you what you wanted to hear.” He leaned down, knife in hand, its tip pointed at Qore’s throat. He needed to play the role of arrogant spy. Nobody would ever connect Keirin to the standoffish human Paladin who shied away from the spotlight. Qore could spend the next thousand years talking about him, and she’d never discover the truth. 

She eyed the knife at his waist. In another world, where he paid less attention, she may have got it and stabbed it into his stomach. But in this one, he leaned so far down that the knife shifted from his front to his side. “The Voice will never forgive this betrayal,” she said softly. “You took for granted our hospitality and kindness, and now you’ve attacked us. You know the stories, Keirin.”

Keith shrugged his lamed, half-shrug. “Whatever route I choose,” he said, “the Voice will protect me.” More likely she’d try to kill him again, wholly by accident. “Goodbye, Qore.”

She smiled at him when he hit her. He aimed for the head, though he tried to restrain his strength. He needed her dazed, preferably knocked out, but most certainly not dead. Three hits to the temple and she fell back against the wall. Her eyes were open but vacant. He glanced over his shoulder to see Manec still laid out on the ground. A trail of blood led from Manec to where he stood; splatters from the fight flecked the wall. It was all a sour, vivid green. 

What now? He knew, without medical attention, he was liable to pass out. It’d give Manec and Qore enough time to wake up and murder him. Yet leaving them might allow them the chance to complete their escape plan. He glanced down both the intersecting halls. Nobody was there, and he was afraid to go investigate rooms in fear that Qore or Manec would escape.

“Hello?” he shouted. The volume discomforted him. He wasn’t used to being loud. Present and commanding, sure. But shouting was different, particularly when everything around him was silent. “I need help!”

Nothing. He cursed. A cursory examination revealed no obvious fire alarms or even general alarms. What did he do? 

The bond. He blinked. He still had the bond, even if Hyladra was silent. There were no emotions from her end of the bond, but he could send a message. He didn’t know where he was, but there’d be cameras to show his location. Maybe people were already on the way, he thought. He hoped they were.

He sent out a tendril of thought to Hyladra. It had a strength to it that Keith found dwindling in his body. He captured the image of his spilt blood in his mind; Qore and Manec were sprawled beneath the painted wall. Instead of pain, he sent the numbness in his arm and a building feeling of panic. He needed help. His only way to get it was through her.

There was nothing. But then a wave of a dozen different emotions washed over him. Relief, worry, and satisfaction were the primary ones. Following the wave, a comforting wind blew over his scorched-with-worry mind. Things were going to be okay. People were coming. Qore moaned behind him as he fell to his knees. The world was spinning. The numbness had spread from his arm to his chest. Manec’s knife couldn’t have hit an artery-- he’d have passed out long ago-- but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pass out. He didn’t know how much time Hyladra had. 

He didn’t know what to do with that sick realization. Sending it to Hyladra would make no difference to how fast he was rescued, and the idea of attacking Qore or Manec while they were down seemed perverse.  He needed to stay upright, watch over them both, and prevent them from leaving. Yet the longer he waited, the weaker he became. How close was Hyladra?

Hurting Manec or Qore would be cowardly. Reinforcements were coming. He listed to the side. It wasn’t like the guards would believe them and let them get a ship. But they might-- no,  _ would _ \-- kill him if he passed out and they woke. Qore would see herself as a divine hand of the Voice. Manec would look at him and see a plain traitor. With two knives, it’d be two stabs to his throat. 

It was one of those  _ choices _ that the Garrison had talked about. Sometimes there were no good decisions. Sometimes all you could do was look at what was the most important thing and ignore everything else. What had mattered, when Allura was captured by Zarkon, was protecting the Lions and keeping Zarkon from not capturing anyone else. Now, what mattered was Keith surviving this and getting information from the pair. They just needed to be alive for that. 

He was digging his moral hole deeper and deeper in the name of the greater good. He wanted to live, he thought. He needed to, for Shiro’s sake, for Allura’s sake, and certainly the sake of the universe and Voltron. The knife felt heavy in his hand.

Did he cut their tendons and then hobble away with the knives before he passed out? Should he simply bleed them until they were too weak to chase him? Maybe, he thought, he should simply hide in one of the hall’s rooms. They wouldn’t find him in time. But would Hyladra and the others find him? He blinked down at the blood around him. He’d leave a trail that Manec and Qore could easily follow. He shook his head. There wasn’t a true choice.

The Galra Achilles tendon was stronger than a human’s, but that meant little to a knife. He crawled toward Qore who twitched when the cold blade pressed against her leg. She jerked when he began to saw away at the tendon above her ankle. Her eyes widened and she took a swipe at him; he ducked it, and when the tendon finally tore, she keened like a wounded animal .The second tendon was faster. She stayed there, crying, as Keith hobbled to Manec.

Manec was much less responsive. Being unconscious was… not great. Was there internal bleeding in her brain? Was she concussed like Qore was? She didn’t respond as he cut her tendons. The only eyes on him were Qore’s, who mumbled and snarled by turns. 

“He knows you’re poison,” Qore said as blood pooled around her legs. Her sharp expression contrasted with her blurry eyes. “He’ll never trust you when he knows you can do something like this.” Her shoulders quivered. She stifled a sob, but he saw her chest flutter. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t send you on a suicide mission to tie up the last loose end in this sordid affair.”

Keith began to hobble away. “It’s too late to go back,” he told Qore. “It is what it is.” He listed to the side and stumbled. His right shoulder slammed against the metal wall. He limped along, using the wall to prop himself up. “...I’m sorry.”

She didn’t reply. He heard her crawling along behind him, and he knew she was going to try to kill him. How far could he get before he passed out? Not far enough, he thought. None of this was the grand victory he’d hoped for in secret. “Fuck,” he moaned as the world spun. Adrenaline faded to a little buzz. It emphasized the exhaustion and pain.

Qore crawled along the floor, slow and steady. He imagined her blood joining his on the hall’s floor. The sounds of her claws against the metal and  Keith’s robe brushing on the wall were almost overshadowed by pants and hisses. Keith’s vision darkened, as though someone slowly dimmed the lights with every step he took. He didn’t know how far he’d travelled. All that remained were flecks of light. With his last burst of energy, he ripped the knives from his robe’s belt and flung them away. He heard them clatter and clink, yet his brain couldn’t process how far they’d gone. Find me, he thought to Hyladra, to Thace, to Volux, to Zarkon, to Shiro. Find me in these shadows.

When the world died to darkness, everything went numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is up on the 26th! Thank you guys for reading and all the comments you leave. <3
> 
> Find me at the-wenzel.tumblr.com!


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for eye gore and self-harm for this chapter.

He didn’t wake to light. Reality asserted itself in a rough scratchy blanket, the feeling of cold air against his nethers, and an ache where his eyes were. Was it a headache from blood loss? Exhaustion? He tried to speak, but phlegm choked his voice. Clearing it scraped his raw throat. He moaned in pain. Someone shifted nearby. He tried to open his eyes but his lids didn’t move, as though they were glued by sleep. 

“Be calm, Paladin,” Zarkon said. His voice came from only feet away. The relief that filled him at the man’s voice seemed perverse. “Don’t try to open your eyes.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Keith gathered the strength to speak. “May I ask why?”

“Because you no longer have any.” Air left his lungs. Zarkon didn’t comment on it. “We’re regrowing them for transplant. It seems one of the Clarion you fought got to you before we did. She decided to take her vengeance.”

It had to be Qore. She’d been crawling after him when he passed out. He’d disposed of the knives, but he couldn’t take her nails from her. “She gouged out my eyes, then.”

Zarkon hummed in agreement. From a Galra, it was more throaty and low. “She attacked your neck as well, but that was easier to heal. It seemed she hoped you’d bleed out before we found you.”

“Is she still alive?” Maybe her attack was what made his throat so sore. He didn’t know how deep her claws had got before Zarkon’s forces arrived. 

The blanket’s edges were tugged, as though Zarkon or some quiet nurse wished to cover him better. He didn’t ask who. “She’s captured, yes. The Druids are interrogating her, as they are every Clarion we caught. Which is-- thanks to your efforts-- almost every single one.”

“Almost.” Tight panic poisoned his mind. He was blind for the interim. His future eyes were being grown by the Galra, and he didn’t know what they’d do to the eyes before transplanting them. Chips could be inserted. Not that they couldn’t have done that to his original eyes, admittedly. He’d been unconscious enough times. His palms itched. “Who escaped? If you have their names.”

“Your companion from the temple, Ravus. He’s in hiding somewhere on the station. He potentially has a handful of followers. There are other suspected fugitives, but there’s no evidence they’ve left Central Command.” Zarkon sighed. “They postpone the inevitable. The escape pods have been disabled station-wide, and all ships grounded. They will be found by the end of the day.”

“Comforting,” Keith said. And it was. The Clarion threat on Central Command was finished. “And you and your officers survived the attack. Hyladra got to you in time?”

“She did.” Keith tried not to slump in relief. “She alerted Commander Thace, who informed me of what was happening. We evacuated the throne room and allowed the bomb to go off. Alarms were disabled for the sake of the rest of the station.”

“Manec felt the station shake,” he said. “But the alarms worried everyone. They almost ran for it.”

“It was a risk, yes. But having the station flee to battle stations would have allowed the Clarion more access to areas they shouldn’t have.” A warm hand touched his shoulder. “You did well, Keith.”

Keith didn’t shrink away from the touch. The band of cloth around his eyes was tight, and the glue on his lids kept the empty sockets from causing problems. The pain was dull and throbbing. He wondered what the Galra had done to keep the nerves and connective tissues alive for the transplant. He decided he didn’t want to think of it too much. 

“How long am I going to be blind for?” he asked instead.

Zarkon’s touch didn’t leave. It was the only warm thing about the room. “A day, or less, as you’ll likely be sleeping for most of it.”

He didn’t want to keep asking questions. He wanted to sleep and forget the feeling of tendons giving away beneath his blade. His temples burned in pain. “Good.” He slumped a bit. “Then it’s over.”

Zarkon laughed quietly. “Not quite.” Noticing Keith’s tensed form, he rubbed a clawed thumb over Keith’s wrist. Did he purposely act as Keith’s anchor to the world? Without his eyes, nothing felt real. It was all cold and light cloth, until he felt Zarkon’s thumb on his pulse. “We don’t know how extensive the Clarion corruption is on Central Command.”

“They were all in the temple main room,” Keith said. “If they weren’t at their stations or eating or whatever, it’s safe to assume they might be involved with the Clarion.”

“Yet there are those we know are Clarion that weren’t at the temple. Druid Vyfa, for example, was instrumental to their operations, yet she was with Haggar when the attack happened. She won’t be the only one.” Keith couldn’t even see shadows. There was no way to judge Zarkon’s movements outside of his touch. The sheer void-like blackness, a galaxy without stars, struck deep into his heart.

Keith breathed slowly and deeply. It was temporary. On Earth, it would have been permanent. He would have adapted-- he couldn’t do anything else-- but here, the Galra would gift him a new set, indistinguishable from his old ones. He’d know, though. He always would. 

“Then what now? I’m assuming my mission is over. While nobody but Qore and Manec knows I’m a traitor, every Clarion at the temple saw my face.” Keith lifted his right arm, about to rub his eyes, but stopped halfway up. His hand flopped against his stomach. “With Clarion still around, presumably talking, people are going to find out that Keirin was a Clarion.”

“Which means we’ll have to send Keirin away,” Zarkon said, “and perhaps adapt your appearance to something different until you leave Central Command.”

Keith blanched. “Leave?”

“Yes, leave. Central Command will be undergoing examinations by the Druids.” Zarkon pulled away. Where his fingers had been, the cold felt even keener. “The attack on my throne room proved that I have been too lax. Security will be increased, and while that is happening, I would prefer you to be in another place.”

So Keith didn’t learn too much about Galran procedures, or out of concern for his well-being? The latter was hard to buy. While Zarkon hadn’t proposed the mission, he hadn’t stopped Keith either. Zarkon viewed safety in a very specific Galran manner, one based around success and the attitude that so long as Keith didn’t come back dead, what did some maiming matter? His eyes itched, as though eager to point out that the maiming had happened, that it wasn’t theoretical or something to laugh about. 

“And where will I be going?” he asked. “A colony?” But that was insecure for Zarkon’s forces. Keith knew he’d escape from a colony.

Zarkon seemed to know that too. “I would send you to a colony only if I wished for you to escape.” Zarkon tapped Keith’s wrist with his index finger. “No, you’ll enjoy this more. You will be going to Gal.”

_ The Red Lion is there, _ was his first thought. The quintessence starvation would end, and he’d have her in his grasp. How far would he be kept from her, though? If he got to her, he could escape. Even as a Galra, he’d leave. His duty to Voltron demanded that. Which likely meant he’d be kept far, far,  _ far _ away from Red. His heart sunk, even as he nodded. “And I’ll be kept somewhere isolated, won’t I?”

Zarkon hummed, as though he was thinking it over. “Do you wish to be?” Zarkon tapped his wrist again. Was he checking Keith’s pulse? Keith bit his tongue to distract himself from the sensation of Zarkon touching him. It was too keen with his sight gone. He didn’t know how to sidle away, or brace for Zarkon’s touch. And he certainly didn’t trust Zarkon enough to feel comfortable without his sight. “Paladin?”

Keith forced himself not to twitch. “It’d be in the desert, wouldn’t it? And I’d be there with guards and no one else.” Did he trust the guards? Would the Clarion attack the place he stayed at when-- not if-- they got word he was there? It also meant that he’d be away from the Druids. An excellent thing in theory until his current form was accounted for. “What’s the other option?” he asked. He needed to be a gadfly for the Druids, demanding they change him back into a human. Being close to them risked more involvement of the Voice, sure, but nothing valuable was gained without risk. And what could go worse? He’d say everything bad that could have happened already had. He sat in a hospital bed with a regrown throat that Qore had mutilated, eyeless and waiting for the Galra to gift him a new pair. 

Zarkon didn’t hum or touch him. The only thing that Keith felt were his words. “You would be at the Palace.”

“Oh,” was all he managed. The Sonata Palace… He didn’t know much about it. It was important, it was the seat of Zarkon’s regime, and it was supposed to be luxurious beyond all imagining. But he’d only seen a blurred picture once and heard gossip from other Galra. Even in books, like The Captain of Thorns, the narrative always felt like it hit a bump in the road. Lush descriptions would give way to vagueness, as though it were dangerous to talk about the Palace in detail. “...Would I be working as a servant?”

He tried not to feel ashamed. There was nothing  _ wrong _ with doing menial work. Janitors, maids, and maintenance workers kept the world turning. But he was tired. Keeping the Palace in order would exhaust him more, and it’d keep his escape plans tangled in a web of  _ I have to fetch the Lord his water _ or  _ the Duke was messy today _ . Work for people never ended. There was always someone else who needed help.

Zarkon laughed, at least. Keith tried not to be too hopeful. “You would be a guest,” Zarkon said. “There would be no laundering and the like for you. Though I will note that we have droids for such tasks now. You’ll meet quite a few of the more, ah, Galran ones.”

That intrigued him. Did the Galra dress their droids up to look like them in their more non-military spaces? Humans did the same, though Earth’s technology was less advanced. “Who would I be at the Palace? I’d have to be  _ someone _ if I’m a guest.”

“You mean you don’t think it likely that I’d pick a normal Galra off the streets to dine and dance with my court and me?” Zarkon touched his wrist again. His finger didn’t move from Keith’s pulse. Keith tried to pretend it hadn’t fluttered. “You could be a secretive prince from another colony. Or maybe you’d enjoy being the starry-eyed commoner that the papers would murmur about.”

Keith shrugged. Zarkon’s leathery fingerpad moved with the motion. “Probably not,” he said. “The less people stare, the better.”

Zarkon’s finger lifted from his skin. Keith jumped when it reappeared, tracing his cheekbone. “I think you’ll find that difficult,” Zarkon said, “no matter your backstory. You-- if you’ll pardon the forwardness-- make quite the Galra. A fighter, a singer, a dancer, and a spy… Rare talents, all put together into one person. That footage of your performance was stunning, Keith.”

His stomach twisted. “I’d wondered if the cameras were going.”

“Only backup cameras,” Zarkon said. “The Clarion were thorough in shutting down our monitoring operations, but there are things I have installed that only a handful of people know about. I was, admittedly, delighted to see you dance. You bring to it the ferocity of a fighter yet the elegance required to make it spellbinding.”

“Don’t.” Zarkon didn’t reply. “This is part of the game, isn’t it? Flatter and charm and make me confused so I slip up. Whatever game you’re playing, leave this out of it. I did what was necessary.”

“And it was beautiful,” Zarkon said. “I would almost think you shy if you weren’t so brazen. Why do you disdain attention like you do? Someone of your talents and looks was built to be admired and praised.”

Shrugging again hurt, but he did it anyway. “I prefer quiet.”

Zarkon laughed. “I’ll figure you out,” Zarkon said gently, though it felt more like a threat. “Your mysteries intrigue me, and I have all the time I could ever hope for to discover each of them.”

Keith tried not to grit his teeth or twitch at the words. “You’ll be coming with me, then?”

“I’d hardly leave you to the predators of my Palace,” Zarkon said. “Nor would I care to leave you unguarded. I know what you’re capable of; none of the servants or guards do.”

Keith stared out into darkness. His lips twitched. Of course. Of course Zarkon would come. A laugh pushed its way up, scorching his raw throat, and came out high and shaky. His teeth were bared in a vicious grin. He tried to pull the emotion back into him: this wasn’t him, he thought, but the adrenaline that’d failed him while fighting Qore persisted. “Afraid,” he said, “that I’ll cause trouble?”

He expected Zarkon to be repulsed. This wasn’t the quiet, if brazen Keith that he knew. Zarkon’s touch didn’t falter. Instead, it pressed down on his throbbing veins. “You  _ are _ trouble,” Zarkon said, and the words were painfully fond. “If you don’t cause a sandstorm at the Sonata Palace, Keith, I will be quite shocked.”

Keith… wanted to disagree. It sounded childish, but he didn’t mean to cause trouble. Getting embroiled in the Clarion affair had not been his end goal. All he’d wanted was the Red Lion and escape. Yet duty and obligation had dragged him into the sandstorm of Central Command. 

So he shrugged. “You know my goal. It isn’t to stir the pot.”

Zarkon echoed the phrase in a quiet tone, as though trying to puzzle out what it meant. Keith was about to clarify before Zarkon seemed to give a mental shrug-- or physical, really, since he couldn’t see, and the thought was much more uncomfortable than he’d expected. “I trust that your goal is escape and your Lion. While I can give you neither, I hope I can provide some comfort in your captivity.”

Keith didn’t have the strength to argue. What would he even say, anyway? Zarkon had provided a bizarre amount of comfort during Keith’s captivity. Keith had had books, food, and friends. The Clarion threat had-- he hoped-- not been on purpose. Zarkon’s touch still lingered on his skin, warm and gentle. It wasn’t a vindication of the horrible things he’d done, Keith thought. But Zarkon wasn’t a raving madman, nor was he thoughtlessly cruel. Even if he was a terrible person, he was dangerously easy to talk to. When the man left, Keith tried to focus on Zarkon’s words and promises.

His eye sockets itched. He wondered if they’d put cream or gel into the sockets and if the drying caused the uncomfortable sensation. There was no way to scratch the itch, and the thought of touching the blindfold made him shudder. He tried to focus on smoothing the blanket on his lap. If he could get it just right, he thought, maybe the itching would stop. The blanket scratched his palms, almost tickling. The more he smoothed the blanket, the worse the tickling, itching feeling got. Again, again, again, he thought. It’d stop eventually. He surrendered when the itching sensation shifted to his palms. 

It was easy to scratch. His claws had been trimmed while he was out, but he ground the tips into his palm, searching for whatever caused the itch. It was deep inside, he thought; below the skin, around the muscle and tendons. What was it? His claws stung as they dug. They pinched the skin and tugged at it. The cold meat of his hand turned fire-hot. 

Wetness blossomed from his palm’s centre. His frantic scratching stopped. It was warm, thin, and tacky. Blood, he thought. He’d torn through the skin. What had he been thinking? The palm’s itching was gone, as though his mind had discarded the thought in panic. His eyes burned, though. He reached up to wipe his hand on the blindfold, desperate to keep the blanket clean.

The blindfold was already wet. Was it pus or ooze from an infection? Yet the liquid stung like salt in a wound. They were tears. Keith hadn’t known people could cry without eyes. He tried to breathe in slowly. His lungs hitched on the action, and his chest fluttered like Qore’s had. 

This was a natural response. People frequently cried, and he’d lived through an intense experience. The Garrison had covered the process of shock. His brain was still processing what had happened. He’d passed out thinking he was going to die. Waking up to Zarkon’s presence didn’t fix that. 

He tried to breathe in, slow and sure. He kept his hand cupped, letting the blood pool. Hopefully a nurse or doctor would appear soon and help him bandage the wound. Without his eyes, he could do little but breathe and sit there. 

His chest kept hitching. Sobs wanted to slip free, but he refused to let them. The adrenaline and fear could be ridden out. It didn’t need further acknowledgement. The blindfold turned from damp to wet: he tried to focus on gratitude that there were no open wounds where his eyes should have been. The idea of tears coating them was almost worse than the panic. 

Just as he thought that, Hyladra’s presence reached out to him. Her worry comforted him, though he felt bad for causing concern.  _ I’m fine _ , he thought. He tried to show her the gentle darkness he sat in.

Hyladra batted the thought away. Her worry turned to a vigourous demand.  _ Let me see you _ , she said.  _ Show me. I’m worried.  _

Keith floundered before he sent the dark again. She tried to knock it away like before, but he clung to the image’s edges.  _ This is it. This is all I have.  _

Hyladra’s thoughts stopped. Dead, horrible silence. And then she surged into action. Images of a passing corridor told him all he needed to know. She was coming.

She was going to see his palm. She was also going to see his stained bandages on his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Fuck.” He couldn’t do anything to fix it, though. The pillows and angled bed cushioned him as he flopped back. They were thin and felt like rough paper. Even his fur didn’t stop the uncomfortable sensation. He wondered if it made his fur frizzy. Did it soak up the moisture in the fur and skin? He didn’t know, but he suspected it did. 

The exhaustion of the past few months caught up with him. He dozed the time away as he cupped his bloody hand close to his chest. There might have been a button to call a nurse, but he didn’t know where it was, and he didn’t have the eyes to find it.

When the door opened, Keith startled. A jaw-cracking yawn followed the surprise: he almost covered his mouth with the bloody hand on instinct. Dribbles of blood must have fallen free, because Hyladra gasped.

“What did they  _ do  _ to you?” A warm hand landed on his shoulder while her other tilted his head towards her. Her fingers began to tug at the knot in the bandages. “You’re bleeding from the eyes, Keith.”

“No,” Keith said. He shooed away her hands. “I, uh, hurt my hand.” He lifted up his right hand and nodded at it. Blood spilled from the palm. It sprinkled onto the blanket. “I would have called a nurse, but I can’t see.”

“...Why are your eyes bandaged.”

Keith hesitated. “Someone gouged them out.”

He couldn’t see Hyladra’s face. He heard the gasp, though. “ _ Who _ ?” she snarled. 

“They’re a captive now,” Keith said, “and Zarkon is regrowing me a pair. This is temporary.”

Her hands snatched his injured one. “And this?” Blood spilled from his palm, on to the blanket. Keith hissed at the touch. “This is fresh, Keith.”

Keith tried to pull his hand back, but she didn’t let him. “I panicked.”

“And you hurt yourself.” She sounded agonized. He was glad he couldn’t see her expression. “I’ve read about this--”

“It won’t happen again,” Keith said. He forced his breathing to even out. “Do you have something to bandage it with? I don’t want to bleed on the blanket.”

Hyladra laughed, the sound barely tamed. “You don’t want to bleed on the blanket.” Her hands pulled away from his, though, and he heard her rooting around through medical supplies. “You can’t keep doing this, Keith. You mutilated your hand. I--” He could almost hear her headshake. “I should be getting a doctor.”

“They won’t care,” Keith said. “Their job is physical, not emotional.” That had too much self-pity in it. He frowned to himself. How did he comfort her without exposing weeping wounds? “I’m just scared at the lack of sight. I know it’s temporary-- all of this is-- but things are darker when I’m alone.”

Hyladra sighed. “...They always are.” She returned to him and picked his hand back up. She pulled a chair up beside him, its wheels squeaking as she moved it. Her light touch poked and prodded at the wound. Keith refrained from grimaces or hissing, but he flinched when alcohol was poured into the cut. “You’re not doing a mission like this again.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Keith nodded at what he hoped was her face. “I don’t want to. I don’t know how to describe the experience. I doubt I could do it justice. But it was unnatural.” Keith winced as she began to layer creams and salves into the wound. Then came the needle. “I’m not meant for spy work.”

“No,” Hyladra murmured as she gingerly threaded the needle through skin. “You really aren’t. I was surprised when you volunteered-- or that your proposal was accepted. You’re resilient, but even experienced spies can crumple under a mound of their own lies.”

He was painfully glad to have her back. Hearing her voice lifted the weight of his lies off his shoulders. It was over. He’d never have to go back to the temple on Central Command. It was done. Over. The signs he’d carry of what he’d done would be a new pair of eyes and perhaps a scar on his palm. The Clarion he’d captured would die, never able to point the finger of who’d turned on them. The temple tenders would forget he ever existed in a few years. There’d be nothing other than his memory, and even that would fade like an old scar. 

Yet he knew, in his heart, that he’d never be the same. Being on Central Command had changed things deep within him. He spoke like a Galra now, excessively proper and highbrow one moment, and cursing like a human the next. He knew the laws and rituals of the temple. The Voice still desperately hunted for him, while his mind was tied to a Galra. 

Like humans in stories about fae, he’d eaten their food and drank their ale. Doing so had forged a deal: he would survive captivity, and they would take a piece of him. He felt like a changeling, torn between two lives even after only a few months. Who did he pray to? God? The Voice? Or his own ability and strength? He wasn’t sure anymore. He suspected, of everything Zarkon had done to him, that had been the goal. He’d turned the human Red Paladin into a half-Galra. If Keith returned to the Castle of Lions in his human form, with the Red Lion, he’d still be a discordant note to Voltron. Few had understood him before. Only Shiro might be willing to try to understand him now. After all, Shiro had been a Galran captive as well.

His thoughts were more self-pity. Shiro had survived a year in the arena, experimentation, and then the brutality of his own race. He’d become a galactic soldier for an ancient cause, and he’d led a bunch of rookies into battle. Keith would never say there were no scars-- there were more on Shiro’s mind than there were on his body-- but Keith could do more than fold after a few experiences. He was the Red Paladin. Even in a Galran form, he had an obligation to continue fighting. 

He’d make it back to the Castle with the Red Lion. But for now, he needed to keep surviving in the fey world of the Galra. 

Hyladra tugged the stitches tight, using the remaining length of thread to tie the wound closed. The knot sunk down when Keith flexed his hand; it dug into the flesh of his palm, but it held. The gels and creams numbed the pain, though it couldn’t hide the discomfort of the stitches. Keith listened to Hyladra pack away the tools she’d used. The needle clinked against the garbage can’s metal sides as it fell. “I thought you were dead,” he said. No, that wasn’t right. “I worried, I mean. You were silent.”

Hyladra hummed in acknowledgement, though she took her time replying. “I feared I’d distract you,” she said. “Lying is far from one of your strengths. I was… emotionally preoccupied. I felt we should each devote ourselves to our respective tasks to the fullness of our capabilities.”

That was diplomatic for saying ‘you’re a shitty liar and I was afraid I’d make your lying worse’. Keith slumped into his pillows again. “Makes sense,” he said. “And everyone else--?”

“Alive and well,” she said. “Certainly in better condition than yourself. Central Command is… nervous. Some are uneasy at the Clarion presence. Those with weaker hearts fear the purging.”

Keith shifted against his pillows. “People have mentioned that. I can take a guess at what it means, but why is everyone so scared? It’s not like the Druids can question every person on Central Command.” Were there even enough Druids to do that? Besides, Zarkon was smart enough not to waste making such precious people dig up people’s little shames.

He couldn’t see Hyladra’s face. “The Emperor would not approve of me divulging details,” she demurred. “...However, the purging is more complex than asking questions or quintessence manipulation. I can share no more, but the Emperor will find every traitor on this station.”

Why didn’t Zarkon use purging more? Was it just a large operation that demanded immense cooperation? Did it invoke the Voice, or cause morale to lower? Keith didn’t push. He was just glad that Hyladra sat beside him and held his uninjured left hand. 

It was the first calm he’d had in a long time. So someone had to break it: “I have to ask you something, however.”

Keith looked at her, though he saw nothing. “What is it?” he said gently. She was likely worried about what he’d done. He needed to soothe the fears--

“Why were you so  _ embarrassed _ ?” 

Oh no. “Uh.” 

Hyladra tapped him on the nose. He tried not to flinch. He couldn’t even brace himself for people’s touch. “Tell,” she commanded. “Did they catch you naked? Did you trip and fall as they had you march about?”

She was eager, but not for his misery. She wanted things to return to what they’d been-- teasing, chatting, and laughter. She didn’t understand, he thought, that those actions had been just as frightening for him. Surrounded by aliens, traitors, and spies, he’d clung to Hyladra like a child. He’d told himself she was safe and that if he behaved and followed Zarkon, everything would be fine. Had he been right and simply thrown himself into the path of danger when the Clarion threat came for no reason? Or had it been an extension of the charade he’d played?

“You’re thinking too much,” she said softly. “I can  _ feel _ your worry. We don’t need to talk about it, Keith.”

He tried not to squirm as she shied away from the bond. The disappointment and worry curdled his stomach. “I had to sing,” he blurted out, “and dance.” Hyladra squeaked. It would have been adorable if he wasn’t admitting what he’d done. “In front of all the Clarion. And I made speeches and led a prayer and it was  _ horrible _ .”

Her hand landed on his cheek, stroking the fur there. She tried to give him a purring shush, but it came out tainted with laughter. He swatted her away as the fog over him lifted. “You’re horrible,” he told her, and she burst out laughing. 

“Were there cameras?” she asked. “Can I have a vid sent to my tablet to see you of all people twirling about?”

Keith groaned. “I hope not.”

“I’m going to ask Druid Volux,” she said gleefully. “I can see you being so elegant!”

Keith rolled onto his side and buried his face into the pillows. “You’re awful,” he told her, but his lips twitched into a smile.

She seemed to feel his relief. She stroked his back, as though thinking over something. “If there are recordings,” she mused, “will the Emperor watch them?”

Zarkon already had, and Keith wondered how many people had watched with him. He found himself laughing, though, only partly hysterical, and Hyladra laughed with him. It took minutes for the fit to subside. When it did, Hyladra was still there, touching him and purring. They sat in silence until a vague sense of guilt drove Keith to speak.

“Zarkon wants me to leave Central Command,” he admitted. “I-- I don’t want to leave you, but your career is here, isn’t it?”

Hyladra took her time responding. “It is,” she said. “I worked hard to be assigned to this post.” Her petting didn’t slow. “Where does he want you to go?”

Keith’s eyes itched, though not from tears. The drying gel irritated his empty sockets. It was temporary, he thought, and that staved off another panic attack for a few more minutes. “The Sonata Palace.”

A sharp intake of breath from Hyladra, and then silence. “There are many places he could send you too,” she murmured. “But that was the last I expected.”

“Same.” Keith rolled onto his back. “He wants me to get into less trouble, I suspect, and I guess he figures the Palace will have enough other Galra to make sure I behave. He’s coming with me too.”

Hyladra didn’t reply. Her hand had retreated from Keith when he rolled over. “While I’m pleased you’ll have the Emperor’s guidance, the Palace is…”

“Vicious?” Keith said. “Embroiled in more politics and backstabbing?” He sighed. “That’s every Palace I’ve ever heard about. Courtiers are either idiots or well-dressed sharks.” He’d read enough fantasy and history to know that.

“The Emperor doesn’t suffer idiots well,” she said wryly. “Though I’d imagine some will have taken up residence in his absence.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. “You can’t go alone.”

Keith wanted to strangle the hope in him. “It isn’t fair to you to make you leave. You have a career to think of.”

“And a friend to worry about,” she said. “I will live many years, Keith, and serve the Emperor for all of them. He wishes for you to be safe. Is it truly damaging to my career to care for a friend who the Emperor cherishes?”

“Cherishes is a bit much--”

“We’ve had prisoners before, Keith. Many of them.” Hyladra pulled away from him. “None of them have been as involved as you, and never has the Emperor done favours for them.”

Keith paused. “Favours?” She wouldn’t know of their interactions. They’d been in private, after all.

“You walk around Central Command free,” she said. “He is cultivating a new pair of eyes for you, and your friends-- despite our failings in service to him-- live. I am still a cadet. Commander Thace remains a high-ranking officer. Druid Volux has yet to be chastised, though I admittedly haven’t asked them directly.”

Keith nodded slowly. “So you think it’d be more of a boon to your career.”

“Barring any unfortunate deaths or scandals,” she said and laughed. “There are Galra who would kill a hundred soldiers unarmed for the opportunity you have given me.”

“Good,” Keith breathed. “Good. Because I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this  _ without _ you.”

Hyladra pressed a dry kiss to his cheek. “You would do fine,” she said, “though you wouldn’t do  _ marvellously _ .”

She left him soon after. Her excitement bolstered Keith’s flagging spirits. She was going to the Palace with him. When had the last Harim been there? Her parents would be so proud! Even Keith, in his exhaustion and distress, smiled. This was a good thing for her. He’d lose some people, he thought, but he’d have Hyladra for what was to come. Even if she posed an obstacle to escape, he knew it was worth it. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he knew it was to the warm content of Hyladra’s mind. 

He woke to the sound of squeaking wheels. The bandages were still on, and Galra murmured around him. Drowsiness kept him from moving, though he felt an IV in his arm. The thin blanket he hated so much had been replaced by a heavy one. It didn’t help his state: he gave a jaw-cracking yawn and drifted back to sleep. He dreamed of flickering lights and the sound of someone’s light laughter.

When he woke, the bandage was still there. But beneath it, a pair of eyes moved. “Don’t panic,” Volux said. Their hand clenched his wrist tightly. “Focus on my voice.”

His breathing didn’t ease. He tensed, but the pain as his wrist bones ground together dragged him to reality. “They work?” Keith managed. His eyes kept twitching.

Volux’s grip didn’t ease. “They should,” they said. “We haven’t been able to test them, but our bio-engineers’ calculations are usually right.”

His eyeballs kept flicking back and forth. There was a soreness behind them, deep in the connective tissue. “And if they’re wrong, I get a new pair?”

“No,” Volux said. “We’re going to leave you blind.” Their grip loosened. “Evidently the Clarion excursion didn’t help your intelligence.”

“Spare me.” Keith’s wound on his palm had healed over at some point. He flexed his hand and no stitches pulled. He didn’t mention it to Volux: it’d only earn more of the Druid’s ire. “Are you here to give me tender care or should I remove my blindfold?”

Volux pulled away and walked around Keith, pacing like an unhappy animal. “Be gentle with it. The gel may have bonded to the cloth.”

The worst that he’d lose would be eyelashes and a bit of fur. Still, he tugged it gently and peeled. He squinted as light spilled in through the bandage: his eyes watered, which helped lubricate the dried gel. Whoever had done the bandage had gone through several passes around his head. Removing the tangle proved harder than expected. Volux intervened when the sticky bandages began getting clinging to the sheets.

“Incompetent,” Volux grumbled.

Keith shrugged as the light burned into his new eyes. “More like blind.” He reached up to rub his eyes but hesitated. “Is touching them okay?”

“Not yet.” Volux hunkered down and grabbed Keith’s face. Their eyes dissected Keith’s shiny new pair. The Druid was clear, present, and masked. “They look fine.”

“I can see fine with them too.” Except for a lack of heat colouring that he’d had before.

“They were designed as a hybrid of human and Galran eyes.” Volux grabbed the used bandages and looped them around their hand, turning them into a neat circle. “We weren’t sure how they would accommodate any potential future changes otherwise.”

His vision was less crisp than it’d been before, but better than his human eyes. The shimmery dark, cosmic colour that’d haunted him on Central Command was gone. “I can’t see heat anymore,” he said, almost disappointed.

“The Clarion damaged those tissue receptors,” Volux said briskly. “We attempted to heal them as we could, but there was little left. Be glad she didn’t dig her way into your brain.”

He could visualize the colour still, at least. “Is there a possibility of it healing on its own?”

“Possibly,” Volux allowed. “Unlikely, though. There was severe scarring we had to remove before quintessence healing could start. Between our lasers and her claws, the damage was… significant.”

“Comforting.” Keith wiped his weeping eyes with the blankets. A few swipes, and Volux shoved a small cloth under his nose. Keith took it with a small  _ thanks _ . “So what now?”

“You’ll need to be monitored for the next few weeks.” Volux smoothed their robes. “I will be accompanying you to the Palace.”

“...You know about that?” Keith looked up from the cloth. Not for the first time, he cursed Volux’s mask. 

“I do.” Volux didn’t sound smug or amused. “The Emperor seems to have labelled me a collaborator of yours. While the HIgh Druid was sympathetic to my request to remain on Central Command, I am uniquely equipped to assist your recovery.”

Ominous. Volux’s foul mood would last as long as they were far from Haggar. Should Keith apologize? He was about to fumble one out, but Volux waved a hand at Keith like they wished to banish him from this plane of existence. “I’m not furious,” they said. “Displeased, yes. Your performance was admirable, but you never should have been among the Clarion. You’ll carry it with you forever. What pains me is that you refused my advice in the first place.”

Keith watched Volux, searching for a sign. Of what, he didn’t know. “I didn’t have a choice,” he said, even if he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Volux hissed, like a cat facing water droplets. “There was always a choice, Paladin. Do me the favour of taking ownership of that.”

They didn’t wait for Keith to reply before leaving. If Keith had been in a nastier mood, he might have called it a flounce. He knew, though, that it was Volux controlling their temper. They could have started a fight and made the next week miserable. But they’d left, and Keith could sit in his uncomfortable bed and wait for a nurse or doctor to come by and then he could eat a bit, sleep, and wait for Zarkon to order Keith moved to a ship for transport.

He’d never see Joyn or Elin again. The moment he went on the ship, there’d be no returning to Central Command unless he was there to destroy it. He wouldn’t have to see the temple, and he wouldn’t wander the halls alone. A mutinous part of him demanded that he abandon the bed, find some clothes, and roam the halls to find those people. He should say goodbye to Kymin and Thace. He needed to know what would happen to Wrin. 

A month ago, he would have done it. Now, tired and wiser, he stayed in the bed. He would only cause those he visited grief and worry. The thoughts were chains on him. He’d extended courtesy to his captors and now he was obligated to be polite and behave for even minute things. Visiting Kymin would distract him from his duties. Elin would likely be alarmed at the arrival of a strange Galra.

And more months ago, he would have interrogated each of them. He’d have prowled the halls, armed and vicious, and he’d found each of them and demanded answers. Would he have tortured them? The Keith of then wouldn’t have done it. The Keith of now could do it to strangers and enemies, but many of the Galra around him were neither. 

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he fell back into the pillows. Volux didn’t understand. There  _ hadn’t _ been a choice. They still thought Keith was an outsider who could detach himself at will from those around him. But every speck of cold inside him had melted. He was fire now, like the Red Lion’s heart. He’d never been anything but impulsive, but a cold logic had fuelled him.  _ Leave Allura. Kill the Galra. Extract the arrival from space.  _

Every decision he’d made since meeting Zarkon had been foolish and driven by his heart. Had the man read him so easily, or was it simply a coincidence? Everyone he’d met had been perfect for chipping away at the cold. He clung to Voltron by a thread, shunning overt betrayal but helping the Galra anyway. The Clarion could have been used to instigate chaos in the Empire, allowing Voltron to swoop in and destroy them both. But by the time Voltron did, so many Galra would be dead.

So many Galra  _ he knew _ would be dead.

Had he been offered a choice, really? Volux thought he had, but then Volux was far from infallible. “Let me sleep,” he said aloud. “This… not now.”

His brain didn’t listen. The visits of doctors and nurses interrupted his churning mind, and the proffered food distracted it from its burning race. It hurt to eat salty or rough food, but he powered through it. “You should stay a few more days,” a nurse said, but he laid out clothes for Keith, and Keith knew his rest’s end came soon.

There was no warning other than that. When Hyladra returned, she came with a half-dozen guards, Volux, and-- strangely-- Thace. “I’m surprised they’re letting us near each other,” Keith said as he dressed behind a curtain.

Volux snorted. Thace was the one who spoke. “The Emperor believes that I can best organize your initial easing into Palace life. I’m the only one of your… acquaintances to have visited.”

“Kymin hasn’t been?” The pants were loose, but a belt that clipped together fixed the problem. 

He could almost hear Thace’s shrug. “His rank is high, but he is young. Staying at the Palace is more than wealth or rank. It is about notability.”

Who was he going to be around? Dread stifled any remaining relief that he was getting away from Central Command. Swimming with sharks didn’t seem like an improvement on the ghosts in the station’s halls. 

I’ll keep my head down, he thought. He’d keep his nose out of people’s business and let Zarkon deal with any problems that came up. His efforts would be devoted solely to escape.  _ This _ was a choice he could make. Not that anyone would believe him. 

The group of guards and friends surrounded him as they marched him along to the hangar. A low black hood hid his face. None of the people they passed would recognize him: still, they pointed, if only for the borderline honour guard Keith had. The Galra who watched looked fearful, though, as if paranoid that they’d be grabbed and accused of something. Their expressions reeked of a calm before a storm. 

The Purging. Had it already started? His answer came when they entered a cavernous hangar. Two ships were the focuses of activity. One was resplendent in colour, emblazoned with the Galran symbol. Well-dressed guards were stationed around it.

The other ship was pitch black. A synapse fired and he hissed as the dark, cosmic colour flashed over his vision. It covered the black metal and danced along the lines that etched a Druid’s mask into the ship’s front.

Banners had been arrayed over its windows. A black carpet stretched from the ship’s side to the hall Keith and his guard were leaving. “What--?” was all Keith managed before Volux shushed him. The group hurried off the carpet. As Keith looked from Galra to Galra, he saw that each stared at the black ship. He understood why when the first of the ship’s guards marched from an unseen exit.

They were dressed in thick, black armor. One of them carried a banner-- a white stylized teardrop on a background of black, with flecks of white floating free. Were they runes, notes, or something else entirely? He couldn’t ask in the deadly quiet that’d taken over the hangar. Even the generators seemed to have gone silent. 

All that could be heard were marching boots. A parade of banners with an array of designs-- animals, weapons, and bizarre and unsettling abstract symbols-- heralded the arrival of Druid after Druid. These ones were different from Volux or Haggar. Once again, they wore black, from their robes to their masks. White designs, so similar to the teardrop they had to be copies, covered the masks that hid the gaze of each Druid. Someone murmured a prayer to the Voice as the Druids ghosted after their guard.

When they passed Keith’s group, he found himself spellbound. Their feet didn’t move as they walked. They were genuinely floating over the ground. Were they even Galra? One glanced at him, as though hearing the thought, but the Druid didn’t pause to look at him, and for that Keith was grateful. 

When the last Druid vanished into Central Command’s halls, sound resumed. Hyladra let out a heaving sigh of relief. Keith realized his hands were clenched at his sides. “Those--”

“Not here,” Thace said. “Only in private.”

Keith hadn’t been consciously measuring their speed before, but there was a noticeable increase. They hurried down the hangar’s incline, towards the luxurious-looking ship. Nobody stopped them as they boarded. Instead, an older man dressed in livery similar to the ship’s colours greeted them. Thace dealt with the niceties, as though he didn’t trust Keith to talk to the man. Keith was too tired and too nervous to argue. Hyladra stayed by his side as they were ushered to a side room. 

The hall’s floors were a deep red wood, while its walls were an airy gold. Geometric shapes had been painted on in a sandy brown; they covered the walls, but their edges dipped onto the wood floor as well. The halls had been wide, shockingly so after months of Central Command’s cramped quarters. 

The room the usher brought them to was big enough to accommodate two buses. There were two concentric circles: the outer was higher and held tables, chairs, and a bar. The lower circle contained pillows and couches, all of them plush and-- when Keith touched them-- steaming hot. A small section had been cut out of the circles, allowing the room’s occupants to stand in front of the floor to ceiling window; there was room for a few dozen people to congregate. He could see half the hangar from where he stood, though nothing of the black ship.

“When do we leave?” Keith asked. He watched the busy mechanics, aides, and guards. It wasn’t private enough, he thought. The room could be bugged, and servants could enter at any moment. So he kept his curiosity about the black robed Druids to himself. Hyladra noticed the whirlwind in his mind: she reached out with a gentle thought, trying to soothe him. He didn’t rebuff her, even if it didn’t help.

“Shortly,” Thace said. He motioned to the couches arranged in the lower level of the room. “We should make ourselves comfortable.”

Keith sat near the window, in a pile of pillows that warmed him like a hot spring. Hyladra took her place beside him. Volux huffed. “Are you his bodyguard now?” they asked. 

Hyladra, instead of rebuffing Volux’s scorn, seemed to contemplate the question earnestly. “I am,” she decided. Thace twitched, as though surprised. “The first Hani of a human.” She paused. “Partly human. Sort of human.”

“Human enough,” Keith said, “to wonder what a Hani is.” It couldn’t be a bodyguard completely. He trusted his bond with Hyladra enough that it would directly translate unless the word would lose something.

Hyladra shrugged, though. “I will protect you,” she said. “That is all you need to worry about.”

“He’ll find something else to agonize about,” Volux muttered. They fussed with glasses and a fizzy drink. The glasses were oblong and shimmery, made from thin obsidian. The liquid Volux poured in was a pale pink that turned to a muted red in the glass. “The Paladin is eager for misery.”

Nobody corrected Volux, which Keith took as a sign to not bother to defend himself. So he shrugged. “Is it my fault your species is always squabbling?” he said. The others grumbled or laughed. Hyladra poured him a drink and had the grace not to comment when Keith angled himself to look at the glass wall and his reflection

It was the first time he’d seen his new eyes. For all his knowledge of their painstaking creation, they looked no different than the usual gold-glowing pair other Galra had. It’d taken quintessence injections to hide his original pair’s purple and gold, and he wondered if he still needed them. He asked Volux who nodded slowly.

“I’m unsure how they’ll function with quintessence in the long term,” Volux said as they swirled the pink liquid in their glass. “For now, though, they seem content to be unified in gold. We should know their state in a few days: the quintessence of the operation will wear off soon.”

Hyladra touched him on the arm, light and hesitant. “They don’t hurt?” she murmured to him.

“They’re sore,” Keith said, “but they work.” He blinked once, twice, and tried not to feel uneasy as his new eyes moved back and forth beneath his lids. “It’s warm in here.”

Hyladra cocked her head to the side. “Slightly,” she allowed. “But you’re only complaining because you’re already sleepy.” Keith laughed and Hyladra’s lips twitched. “Stay up until we leave Central Command. The sight is worth the wait.”

He forced himself to stay awake. The drink helped: it tasted sour and floral, and he suspected it was a drink that few Galra were ever able to have. Hyladra cradled her own glass like it was made of gold.

Nobody came to tell them the ship was leaving. The only sign that warned of the impending departure was the people working on the ship scattering to the hangar’s edges. When the ship began to hum, Keith pulled himself to his feet and walked to the window. “Can they see us?” he asked.

“No,” Thace said. “They only see more metal.”

There was a metaphor for Keith’s experience on Central Command, he mused. He wasn’t of a mind to make it, though. The ship lifted from the hangar and drifted over it. The barely visible shield that separated the hangar from space warped over the ship’s window. When they broke free, Keith’s breathing hitched. 

Central Command’s size was hard to comprehend. Inside, the number of buttons for elevators could leave a visitor dizzy, and halls stretched for eternities. But the scale had been compartmentalized. The halls were never huge, the doors rarely big, and the rooms tended to be segmented, as though the Galra feared open spaces. 

Behind him, the others talked. Some of it was about the repairs Central Command was undergoing. Interspersed between it were sarcastic quips and droll remarks. This was his new team, he thought. They didn’t get along, some of them had strange relationships, and Keith knew very little about most of them, but they were what he had. He’d need them for the future. He still needed to figure out how to get the Holts from Zarkon, especially as he still didn’t know for certain who’d lowered Central Command’s shields for Voltron. It might have been the Clarion, but he had no proof. The purging might discover the culprit, he thought, but would Zarkon give him credit for it? Only if it was one of the captured Clarion, most likely. 

And who had tried to kill him during the first attack? One of the Clarion? He’d never found out much about his attacker, and nobody had offered information or hints. Once again, the black robed Druids might find out what had happened. Would Zarkon tell him? Or would he need to dig up the information elsewhere?

The ship glided away from Central Command. The stars glittered in the void’s blackness. He couldn’t feel the ship move, and the liquid in his glass didn’t shift. He could see now the melted metal of Voltron’s attack. Even months later, the signs remained in dented portions of the station. Crews worked away at it, piece by piece.

Central Command carried a new scar: Zarkon’s throne room sat in the middle of the station, looking out at the ships, stars, and soldiers. A force field surrounded the open wound the bombs had made. A hundred workers swarmed the area, desperate to fix it before Zarkon returned. What did Zarkon think of what had happened? Did he feel any fear or distress?

Keith doubted it. Over ten thousand years, Zarkon had seen worse. What scared and scarred Keith were things Zarkon did before breakfast. In the man’s web, would such things become normal for Keith?

Not if he kept his head down, he thought. But what about when he returned to Voltron? He hadn’t thought of the Galra he’d killed before being captured. Now he wondered how many he’d killed, their families, and who they would have been if not for the Empire.

“Saying goodbye?” Hyladra asked from behind him.

Central Command began to blur. Goodbye, he thought, implied fondness. Central Command had been a prison. He’d done horrible things in desperation. People had tried to kill him again and again, and he’d lost more than his eyes in the conflict. Who he’d been had died a hundred deaths. 

Who was he now, though? He was still the Red Paladin. But he’d become the Outsider, Keirin the Tuvani, and someone who tortured, killed, and tricked for Zarkon’s cause. If he was just the Red Paladin, he’d have said good riddance. But that faerie deal he’d made had bound him to the Galra, and he found his tongue failed him at what he felt. There were no curses vile enough for the place, yet he feared what would happen to those on the station during the war.

Frozen by his own regrets and hopes, he said nothing as Central Command faded to streaks of white and black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, arc one of this series is done. 
> 
> Next arc starts on the 29th! Keep an eye out for a story called Salt and Blood, or subscribe to my username or the like!
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me through this. <3 Writing FMITS has been a journey, and while we've got two more parts to go, I promise it'll be worth the trek.


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